


City of Stars

by Mynsii



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Abuse, It's probably not a good idea to fall in love with someone you're only casually having sex with, Modern AU, Organized Crime, Slow Burn, especially when that someone is your roommate/friend, not a coffee shop AU I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 108,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mynsii/pseuds/Mynsii
Summary: "You've almost amassed enough money to free yourself, am I correct? Don't lie to me, I'll know.”It starts, as most clichés do, with screamed obscenities and a shitty, hipster coffee shop.She's a struggling actress, having recklessly abandoned the comfortable life of brilliant child prodigy and multi-millionaire heiress to pursue her own, somewhat misguided, dreams. He's a mess of a human being; sold into the putrid underbelly of society as a child to pay off his father's debts, and dreaming only of the day he is finally able to claw his way to freedom and see his tormentor die by his hand.It's fate, in the form of one shaggy-haired mutual friend, that brings them together to ease their mounting financial woes.Stumbling into her bed was entirely accidental.“Then explain this to me; why is it that you're willing to sacrifice seventeen years of blood, sweat and tears for a girl you barely know?”





	1. Desperation

_'Is this the start of something wonderful and new? Or one more dream that I cannot make true?'  
-_ Sebastian Wilder _,_ La La Land (2016)

 --------

Vegeta was no stranger to humiliation, but he usually wore it well with a practiced mask of indifference and a scowl that he hoped screamed ' _one day I'm going to murder you while you sleep, but maybe not for this, maybe I just want you dead_. _You'll never know._ '

He'd suffered through seventeen years of systematic degradation under Frieza's tyrannical thumb, taking beatings from Zarbon and Dodoria and Cui - basically anyone else who wanted to use the new kid as a punching bag while he was still too small to fight back – without so much as shedding a tear. It had only got worse as he grew older. Sent to do Frieza's dirty work like a good little lapdog. Breaking bones like toothpicks, and surrounding himself with filth and depravity all so he could pay off the debts his piece of shit father saddled him with. He'd endured it all with little complaint, working towards a singular goal of getting the fuck out, because he was Vegeta and deep down he knew he was better than what the world had offered him.

But nothing had been so painfully debasing as this very moment, sat in the parking lot of a shitty coffee shop, 'The Lookout', staring blankly at the back of a receipt that had some words he didn't fully understand scrolled across the crumpled paper. The fuck was an _Iced Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte_ anyway? With a displeased huff Vegeta dug into his pocket, pulled out his phone and scrawled through his contacts until he found the one he was looking for. The recipient picked up after only three rings, and before they could speak Vegeta was growling down the speakers.

“Hey, Nappa I'm going to be late. Zarbon sent me on a fucking coffee run, as if we don't already have people who can do that for us. Smug cunt.”

Vegeta swore he heard a suppressed snort of laughter on the other end of the line, and grit his teeth. “If you're already there, can you grab me something. I'll take an Ameri--”

“NO.” Vegeta cut Nappa off flatly, his voice dripping with poorly concealed venom. “It's bad enough I'm having to do this bullshit for Frieza and Zarbon, but I'm not working as your personal fucking servant too. Get Raditz to pick something up for you if you're that fucking thirsty. Better yet, use your legs and do some work yourself.”

“Whatever, dick. Hurry up.”

“Tch.”

Vegeta ended the call, tossing his phone at the passenger seat and slamming open palms against the steering wheel. He could leave now, take the car and just go. Sure, Frieza probably tracked all the vehicles, but he could dump it and hot-wire another when the coast was clear. He could be free, be his own man. Never again have to lower himself to grabbing coffee for that smug, shit-eating lizard and his minions. But he wouldn't. He knew it. Frieza knew it too, which is why he'd ordered Zarbon to send Vegeta out for such a menial task. He was proving a point and asserting dominance, testing Vegeta. Reminding him who was boss. The _bastard._ He was going to murder Frieza one day, even after he bought his way out. He'd bide his time, maybe wait years after the fact to avoid suspicion. Then, when they'd all but forgotten about him, Vegeta was going to slaughter everyone who'd crossed him and made his life that bit more unbearable than it already was.

The seconds ticked by and Vegeta knew if he didn't hurry up he was going to receive some sort of punishment, and he may as well tear the bandaid off quickly, jumped out of the car, and tried not to outwardly project his humiliation too much.

As far as he could tell 'The Lookout' was nothing special, just another hipster hangout boasting the best coffee in the world. Zarbon, being a mug for shallow, consumeristic bullshit had been insistent that the drinks _had_ to come from 'The Lookout', because apparently hitting up a Starbucks, or even brewing their own damn coffee, was below the crime lord and his right hand man. He grunted as he pushed the door open, feeling painfully out of place in his plain black hoody and jeans, a fading shiner on his right eye. He felt like a thug, and, if he were being honest with himself, it was probably because he _was_ one.

“Can I take your order?” The barista at the counter asked after a few wavering moments of hesitation. She was cute, if not painfully bored, a fake smile stretched across her lips. Her blue hair was pulled back, a few wayward strands loosely framing her face. She was shockingly pale, her eyes – the same shade as her hair – clashing with her skin in a way that made her look other worldly. Had he been less angry and worked up, Vegeta might have found her attractive.

Vegeta shoved the crumpled paper at the barista, not even pretending to read the menu board and feign civility. “All of this. I'll take a regular black coffee too.”

The woman's smile tightened as she forced it further. “Anything else, _sir?_ ”

'No.” Vegeta slammed a twenty down on the counter, purposefully missing her open palm.

For just a second the mask slipped, and the barista's lips pursed in agitation. Then, just as soon as she lost control she regained it again, albeit with a shaking breath sucked in probably to avoid screaming at Vegeta. She took the money to the cash register, and pointedly mimicked his earlier actions when she dropped his change against the hard wood surface, rather than his hand. “Can I take a name?”

“Excuse me?” Vegeta narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Why the fuck would she need to know his name?

She was making him coffee, not taking him to dinner.

“A name,” She sounded genuinely frustrated now, and despite himself the corner of Vegeta's lips twitched upwards. There was something satisfying about the misery of others, comforting almost. It reminded him that he wasn't alone, and the miasma of despair that shrouded his life billowed out and stained others' too. “So I can call you when your coffee is ready.”

“Fine, whatever. Breigh.”

He didn't miss the way she rolled her eyes as she turned her back to him, setting about making whatever outlandish concoctions Zarbon and Frieza had demanded, and his less pathetic plain black coffee. Vegeta propped himself against a chest high table as he waited, rummaging for his phone once more and checking over the intel. He was supposed to be on 'security' duty with Nappa and Raditz today, which basically amounted to being Frieza's meat shields if things went to shit, and beating the crap out of someone who pissed the boss off. Apparently the proprietor of a jazz bar, 'The Namek', wasn't all too keen on selling the business off to Frieza, despite the _generous_ offer made to him, and now they were going to have a little chat to smooth matters out. Vegeta frowned.

“One long macchiato, and one cinnamon latte, iced, for Breigh. I'll grab the black coffee for you now.” The waitress suddenly called, her voice plastic and cheery in spite of the glare currently pointed in Vegeta's direction. He pushed himself off of the table and strode over to the counter, two drinks already firmly locked in place in a paper cup holder, the third – his coffee – still firmly in the woman's hands. Vegeta tried to snatch it off of her, to hurry the process up so he could just get out of here, and things just went downhill from there.

The cup was knocked out of her hands, the lid coming undone and releasing a dam of black liquid. The blue haired barista yelped as coffee met skin and fabric, either from the heat or the indignation, Vegeta couldn't tell, and some of the bitter tidal wave found its way over to Vegeta, soaking his hoody in the process.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Vegeta snarled as the woman just stood there, her white uniform now brown and clinging to her abdomen, her arms raised in shock. His words seemed to spur something within her, and her temper flared.

“Me? What the hell's wrong with you, buddy?” She motioned down at her clothes. “I could have been badly burnt, you know.”

“What a shame you came out unscathed,” Vegeta bit back acridly.

“You know what? I don't get paid enough for this shit.”

“Join the queue, sweetheart,” Vegeta grabbed the remaining two coffees, leaning towards her. “You're damn lucky I'm in a fucking rush.”

The woman's hands were planted firmly on her hips now, her lips turned turned up in a sneer that could rival his own. “You're an asshole.”

Vegeta leant closer. “And you're a _waitress._ At least _I_ have prospects.”

The barista opened her mouth to say something, but Vegeta was gone before she could spit anything out. The tinkering bells of the door rang out behind him, muffling the indignant cries coming from inside 'The Lookout'. He stomped to the car, the coffee soaking his hoody beginning to cool and feel uncomfortable. Today was going to be one of those fucking days, he could just tell.

\--------

“You look tired, man,” Raditz said, arms leisurely crossed behind his head, almost lost in the massive mane of hair.

Vegeta grunted. “Can't sleep because apparently everyone else in that goddamn motel thinks 3am is the perfect time to instigate World War Three, and my sleep-depravation compensating coffee ended up all over me this morning.”

They were stood at the back of the room, tucked away in the shadows, basically existing only to look scary. Neither of them too their eyes off of their boss as they spoke, but it was clear they were disinterested. Nappa stood behind Frieza, with Zarbon and Dodoria either side of the crime lord, while two towering figures stood opposite them, shielding an elderly, portly man who reminded Vegeta of _Jabba The Hutt_. They were discussing business practices, something neither Vegeta nor Raditz had much interest in, only sticking around to earn their freedom, so they allowed themselves to relax enough to converse. To Vegeta's annoyance the coffees he'd been sent half-way across town to retrieve remained largely untouched, and he contemplated shoving the disposable cup right up Zarbon's smug ass. But he guessed that probably wouldn't go down well with Frieza, and so tapped into the seemingly bottomless well of self-control that he'd built for himself over the years.

“Still haven't found yourself a more permanent place to live, huh?” Raditz asked, craning his neck to get a better look at one of the henchmen on the other side. As far as Vegeta could tell the old man went by the name 'Guru', and his bodyguards were called Nail and Piccolo, both towering close to seven feet tall, if not more. Either way, they were taller than both Raditz and Nappa, and made Vegeta look like a child in comparison. But he had a feeling he could take them both on and win if it came down to it, and that made him smug.

“Nope. Every place I've looked at is too damn expensive.”

“Pssh, whatever 'Getes, you earn more than me, you're hardly strapped for cash.”

“Don't call me that. I fucking hate it when you call me that... and wipe that goofy smile off of your face, we're supposed to be intimidating and you look like a goddamn clown.” Vegeta's frown deepened. “I know I get paid more, but I also have a lot more debt to work off, and I'd like to have a taste of freedom before I'm too old to enjoy it.”

“Maybe I can he--”

“Vegeta, come here. I think it's time we introduced our friends here to The Prince.” Raditz was cut off before he could finish his sentence, the nasal sneer making both men shudder involuntarily. Reluctantly Vegeta pushed himself forward, his arms still tight across his chest, jaw so tense it was a wonder he teeth hadn't shattered. Piccolo, the larger of Guru's lapdogs, regarded him with a disparaging smile, clearly underestimating him because of his short stature. It was always the same with these morons, they always assumed they could kick his ass because they had a few inches on him. Vegeta usually beat them bloody with ease.

“Yes, Lord Frieza?” He said, bowing when he finally reached his boss's side. Frieza was sickly pale, not like the girl at the coffee shop who looked almost nymphean in her complexion, but sinister, like a malevolent spectre fresh from the depths of hell. The white suit he wore did nothing to lessen his ugliness, though Vegeta suspected this was intentional, disgust synonymous with fear. An easy way to throw off a rival, to weaken them. He played on every primal instinct that told you to shy away from the revolting, to do whatever it took to rid yourself of the beast. Frieza was clever with his intimidation tactics, and, like Vegeta, his physical strength was underestimated by most too. He was inhumane, a monster in every sense of the world.

“Ah, my favourite little _monkey_ ,” Frieza purred, his narrow eyes gliding over Vegeta's bent and submissive form. He fucking _hated_ that slur, and he hated having to play the part of the servile guard dog. He could hear Zarbon and Dodoria snickering to themselves, and he had to close his eyes for a second to prevent himself exploding. Frieza grinned, and the gesture made Vegeta's stomach clench unpleasantly.He knew what was coming; he was the secret weapon. The most aggressive, the one with the most power. He didn't want to fight an old guy and his men over a bar that was rightfully theirs. There was no honour in it, no pride. Then again, when had Frieza ever cared about those things? He only cared to snatch them away.

Vegeta rose from his position of acquiescence, grinding his teeth so hard he was surprised there was anything left of them. His eyes drifted to Guru and his bodyguards, and for the first time he noticed the fourth member of their 'family'. A small boy crouched between the old man and Nail, probably no older than six or seven. No older than Vegeta was when Frieza took him. He couldn't help but pale, but tried not to let his growing trepidation show. Despite his line of work, despite all the awful shit he had done, Vegeta had never killed a man. Nor had he ever hurt a child. He left the former to Nappa, Zarbon or Dodoria, and he hoped that even Frieza wasn't capable of the latter, though memories of his brutal childhood demonstrated otherwise. But that didn't stop him beating a man until he was an unrecognisable bloody pulp, nor did it stop him destroying someone's life's work in front of them as they wept and sobbed. He was a bad man, even if he didn't necessarily _like_ doing what he did, but at least he had his morals. But he had a feeling he'd have to do something he'd regret now, and he couldn't stop staring at the kid.

  _Papa no, please don't leave me!_

_I'm sorry, Vegeta. There's just no other way. You belong to Frieza now._

_Papa **please** , I'm scared. I wanna go home. I wanna see mama and Tarble._

_You hear that, King? Your little **prince** is scared. Are you sure he's as strong as you said he is. He just looks like a pathetic little **monkey** to me. _

Frieza's hand was suddenly on Vegeta's shoulder, his fingers curling like a vice. A low laugh vibrated through his body, Vegeta's heart plummeted further.

“Let's talk strategies... _”_

\--------

All of her current problems could be traced back to Tien, which is why Bulma was currently giving him the cold shoulder and retracting the open invitation to her home for the foreseeable future. She'd repeatedly asked him not to sleep with her hopelessly infatuated and somewhat mentally unstable roommate, _begged_ him even. Bulma knew it was a bad idea, regretted even introducing the pair in the first place, but of course he'd ignored her, and when she'd come home early from another wasted audition to find Tien and Launch half-dressed and making out on the couch like teenagers in heat, she wasn't entirely surprised. The men in her life had an unfortunate habit of ignoring her, even though she was right more often than not. Predictably Launch became too intense far too quickly, and Tien – social recluse and commitment-phobic _moron_ that he was - made the snap decision to travel half-way across the globe with Chiaotzu in order to 'find himself'.

Which meant that despite Bulma's frantic pleas, Launch also subsequently disappeared with the singular goal of finding Tien, and when the latter returned to the city three months later _alone,_ very pointedly avoiding any conversations about his on/off maybe-girlfriend, Bulma had to admit defeat and accept her roommate was probably never coming back. Which meant she had to cover rent and utilities by herself, working her shitty job that definitely didn't pay enough, while trying to get her acting career up and running. Tien had (rightfully) bore the brunt of her frustrations, and although awkwardly apologetic in his own gruff way, made no attempt to tell her what exactly had happened between himself and Launch to warrant Bulma's sudden increase in outgoings.

The first two months hadn't been so bad. Sure, she had to make some cutbacks and tighten her budget a bit more than she would have liked, but she managed. She had dinner with Chi Chi and Goku at their place embarrassingly often, and Raditz bought more than his fair share of six-packs which she downed somewhat guiltily. Tien had even dropped by with breakfast bagels more than once in an attempt to sweeten her up. But by month three her finances were stretched dangerously thin, and even sponging off of her friends couldn't fix that. Making rent with a little to spare for luxuries had been doable when Launch had been there to contribute, but with what little savings Bulma had rapidly drying up, it was now impossible. But Bulma was not ready to admit defeat and go home. Dropping her research and abandoning the family home had been acts of rebellion that she wasn't prepared to go back on, and giving her parents the satisfaction of articulating well-versed 'I told you so' speeches was something she was willing to avoid until absolutely necessary. Even if she was growing increasingly desperate and worried.

Though she had to admit, she actually thought her acting career would have picked up by now. Nothing major, she was intelligent to know she wasn't going to become a superstar overnight, but she'd expected something more than the two shitty commercials she'd landed so far.

Bulma pulled her coat higher up against her neck, trying to stave off the worst of the cold. The remnants of the winter were yet to bleed away, and it was unseasonably cold for March. The lobby of her building wasn't much warmer, offering very little in the way of shelter from the elements. She elected to walk, rather than take the elevator, deciding she could use the extra exercise to keep in shape if she were to survive on a diet of Cup Noodles and pizza rolls for the foreseeable future.

Her door was already unlocked when she pushed on it, the Son brothers having already made themselves at home; Goku in the armchair and Raditz splayed across the couch as they played some sort of fighting game. Bulma shucked off her coat, folding it and dumping it on the countertop, idly wondering if she'd ever regret having keys cut for her two friends. They were capable of eating her out of house and home, often had before Launch left, but they'd been somewhat chivalrous and shown restraint due to her dire financial status. Now they mostly came over to keep her company, drink beers and play games. Sometimes they'd help her rehearse scripts, but mostly they just offered companionship. Bulma was grateful for that. Not many people had friends they really could rely on too.

“Hey Blue!” Raditz greeted cheerfully, his eyes flicking away from the television screen for a split second to regard her.

“Yeah, hey Bulma,” Goku chirped. Unlike his older brother, he didn't make an effort to look at her. Too focused on the game. Too competitive. Too obsessed with winning at all costs.

“Hey boys,” Bulma breezed past them, momentarily stopping to ruffle Raditz's hair. He tilted his head back and away from the game in its entirety now to beam at her fondly. On screen, his character was getting its ass kicked by Goku's. Bulma returned the gesture, and by the time her hands left Raditz's shaggy mane, and his focus shifted, his character was dead. “I'm going to go change.”

“I can come and help you with that if you'd like?” Raditz offered as he set up the next battle. He was only half-joking, and Bulma scowled, clipping the back of his skull.

“Pervert.”

Raditz grinned up at her, cupping his head between his hands and batting his eyelashes at her. “You know you love me.”

“Begrudgingly.”

Bulma disappeared into her room, pulling off her coffee stained uniform and tossing it at the laundry hamper. She missed, and it joined yesterdays underwear and last weeks sweatpants in a heap on the floor. She grabbed a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt that had several holes in in, pulling them on with a huff before setting her hair free. When Bulma returned to the living room Goku was on his feet and talking into his cell phone, Raditz mouthing 'Chi Chi' with a flick of his head towards his younger brother. Bulma grabbed Goku's discarded controller and took it to the kitchenette with her to grab a beer. A quick glance at the coffee table revealed Raditz and Goku were dry, and so one turned into three, the necks clanking together as she retrieved them one handed from the fridge. She placed one on the counter, the other two sloshing noisily.

“How was work?” Raditz asked, still watching her intently.

“Shit.” Bulma said, handing Raditz the beer, flopping down on the sofa next to him and propping her feet up onto his lap. He immediately began massaging the flesh of her right calf with his free hand, his thumb working the muscle particularly hard, and Bulma grinned at him around the mouth of the bottle. When she finished her swig she slammed the bottle onto the table, perhaps a little too hard, and un-paused the game with Goku's former controller.

Raditz's character fired a string of blue orbs towards Bulma's, smacking them in the chest and chipping away at their health. “So, same as usual?”

“More or less. With the unnecessary addition of more grumpy assholes.” Bulma's character countered with a swift series of kicks, most of which Raditz blocked, but the ones he missed hit their target with critical precision.

Kick. Block. Punch. Punch. Crouch. Block. Block. Special Attack. “Want to talk about it?”

Kick. Punch. Crouch. Roll. Roll. Block. Dodge. Punch. Kick. Kick. “There's not a lot to tell. Some undoubtedly roided up jerk-off knocked hot coffee all over me, and then proceeded to yell at me as if it was my fault.”

Special Attack. Special Attack. “People are assholes.”

Ultimate attack. KO.

“Yup.”

Their fight wrapped up around the same time as Goku's phone call, Bulma smirking smugly in victory, Raditz sulking over his loss, lamenting about the difficulties in playing one-handed. Goku shoved his cell into his back pocket, smiling affectionately. Bulma had never known a couple love one another as deeply and sincerely as Chi Chi and Goku, and it made her heart swell to see her closest childhood friend still smile like a love-sick kid simply from speaking to his wife on the phone.

“Hey Goku, I left a beer for ya on the counter,” Bulma said, tilting her head in its direction. “How's Chi Chi?”

“Fine! Her dad's visiting, so she said it's cool if I hang out here for a while,” Goku said, scratching at the back of his head sheepishly. “As long as I'm back for Gohan's bedtime.”

It was hard to imagine Goku as a father, so sweet and innocent that sex had seemed off the table. But then he and Chi Chi had sheepishly announced that they were dropping out of school to have a baby at _seventeen_ and the illusion had shattered. Still, despite getting knocked up before they could vote, they'd defied the odds and hordes of critics by making it work. Getting married and moving into a tiny apartment the moment they decided to keep the baby had seemed like a huge risk to Bulma back then, one that would never pay off. She was glad, for once, that her friends were able to prove her wrong. But that didn't make the fact Goku had a _five year old_ any less intense, and there were moments Bulma simply forgot about Gohan's existence and the reminder was a harsh slap in the face all over again that they were no longer carefree kids themselves.

She couldn't imagine having to pay rent and bills _and_ take care of a growing child.

“How is Gohan anyway?” Bulma asked, mostly just to be polite. She liked Gohan, but only because he was her best friend's kid. If he were any other child she'd be uninterested.

Goku shrugged. “Strong. Super strong. But smart too. Chi Chi says I'm not allowed to push him to do martial arts, says we should push him to get the education we never got chance to get. Whatever makes the kid happy, I guess.”

“Yeah, don't be like my parents,” Bulma muttered bitterly. “Let him pursue his own dreams.”

Goku was quiet for a moment, but as he passed her on the way back to the armchair he squeezed Bulma's shoulder. “Any luck finding a new roommate?”

“Nope. The only person who responded to my ad was some creepy, chauvinistic pig who made a comment about paying extra if I gave him my panties.” Raditz snorted and Bulma kicked at him.

“Have you tried asking Popo for a raise?” Goku tried. “That way you don't need a roommate.”

“Hell no, he scares the crap out of me. Yajirobe once went into the back room to ask for an advance and when he came out he was white as a sheet and didn't speak for the rest of his shift,” Bulma switched her focus to the older brother, nudging him much more gently with her foot. “Raditz, c'mon you _have_ to know someone who's looking for a place to live, right?”

She had tried asking Raditz himself if he would move in with her, but he had always countered with a firm 'no', citing a conflict of interest with a grin that left Bulma intrigued, but ultimately unsatisfied.

“Well actually, here is this one guy... but he's in my line of work.”

Goku's eyes snapped to his brother, and narrowed to an angry squint. Raditz's 'profession' was a sore spot among the siblings, and one of the few topics that Goku was unable to swallow with a smile. They all knew his line of work was less than legal, but they also knew it wasn't by choice. Raditz didn't particularly like to talk about it, and so they didn't ask. That didn't stop Goku from being pissed off, nor did it stop Raditz from being uncomfortable, but it was simply the way things were. “You're honestly considering letting Bulma live with one of these guys, are you crazy?”

Raditz shrugged. “I trust him. He's one of the few people I actually do trust. He's like me, not in it because he wants to be, but because he has to be.”

Goku opened his mouth to say something else, but Bulma cut him off. She was desperate, “I don't care. You're a good guy, and if you can trust him, so can I. Bring him over tomorrow after work.”

\--------

“There's a girl I know, my brother's best friend, and she's looking for a roomie to help make rent. You should consider it.”

“Tch.” Vegeta wasn't really paying attention to him, distracted and unsettled by the events of the day before. He'd been forced by Frieza to fight Nail and Piccolo right in front of the kid, who had proceeded to beg and scream at him to stop. Only, it was less of a fight, and more of Vegeta pummelling them until they couldn't stand. He felt dirty. He'd played it off, played the part of the psychopath, helped the cause out, helped things get settled up quicker so he could go the fuck home – or, at least to the motel room he called home for the night – and put the day behind him. That still didn't stop him from seeing the kid's wide, terrified eyes every time he shut his own, though.

 _Frieza, that's enough. They're gonna **kill** the kid if they don't stop now._  
_Oh please, Nappa, he's okay. He needs a bit of toughening up, don't you Little Prince?_  
_Sir, he's just a **child**! He's not even nine years old!_  
_Nonsense! Zarbon and Dodoria are just teaching him his place in the pecking order._  
_Jesus Christ, they just **broke his arm** for fuckssake!_  
_It'd be in your best interests to remember who exactly you're talking to, Nappa._

“For real, she's great. Real smart, like certified genius, funny, easy on the eyes. She's not even asking for much. It's a lot cheaper than bumming around in shitty motels and one-monthers.” Raditz was still talking as they counted the cash, blissfully unaware of Vegeta's disinterest.

“Why don't _you_ move in with her, then?” Vegeta grouched, bundling another thousand together and tossing it in the duffle bag sat between them.

“Because she's also _my_ friend, and hot, and I don't want to screw things up by fucking her senseless.”With a wolfish grin Raditz added, “well, not yet.”

“Tch.”

“Vegeta, it's going to be saving you a few hundred dollars a month. You'll be able to pay your debts off quicker and get out of this shit-hole,” “You'll be doing me a solid.”

He had to admit it was a tempting offer, especially if it meant it would be _saving_ money. Bouncing from cheap to motel to motel had saved him a few bucks here and there, but nothing substantial. In an ideal world he'd get his own apartment, live by himself without requiring a roommate. But in an ideal world he'd be his own man, so he didn't have the luxury of being fussy. “What's the place like?”

“It's nice. Two bed, decent living space. Only one bathroom but it's better than no bathroom. Her ex-roommate bounced, went off to chase dick or something, and she's getting pretty desperate for cash. She's a good girl, and I don't wanna see her struggle.”

“Is she...?” Vegeta trailed off, the implication evident.

“Fuck no, she's not one of Frieza's girls. She went to school with Kakarot, moved out here to try acting. Sweet thing, bit of a temper, but harmless. To be honest you'd be doing me a favour. I worry about her living by herself. She's not strong enough to handle herself if shit went down.”

“You know Raditz, I'd never have pegged you as the sentimental sort,” Vegeta said snarkily. He shoved another few stacks into the back, not daring to think what he could do if he just took the money now and ran. He wouldn't need to stay in shitty motels, he wouldn't need to bunk-up with a friend of Raditz's, and he wouldn't need to worry about paying off debts. He could be free. Well, free until one of Frieza's men hunted him down and gutted him. “Sure, whatever. I'll check the place out, but I'm making no promises.”

“ _Sweet_.”

Vegeta looked down at one of the notes in his hand, a brown stain obscuring the face, and winced. He thought of the boy, pleading with him to stop, pleading for mercy, and tried to fight back the nausea that arose with the memory.

 _When's my papa coming back for me? I want to go home._  
_Stop crying you snivelling brat. Your coward of a father is **never** coming for you._  
_You're a liar! My father isn't a coward. He's big and brave and strong. He'll come back for me and when he does he's going to kill you! He loves me._  
_**Nobody** loves you, you disgusting little **monkey.** Now shut up before I snap your neck._

\------- 

When Raditz arrived at her door with a mysterious stranger the next day, Bulma didn't know what to think. He wasn't exactly what she'd expected, though, truth be told, she hadn't really known what to expect.

He was a lot shorter that Raditz but much broader, fitted black t-shirt melting over an incomprehensibly hard body. His biceps bulged, deep bronzed skin littered with scars of various intensity, hand planted firmly on narrow hips that flared deliciously to well formed glutes and bulging thighs. His hair, a slick black flame atop his head, looked to be as wild and untameable as Goku's, and his eyes, framed by thick brows pulled down in a scowl, were an alarming shade of onyx. He might be considered handsome, in an unconventional way, sharp features and an exotic allure that she couldn't quite place making up for his lesser qualities, but his aura screamed 'fuck off' rather than 'fuck me', which ultimately won favour. Bulma's eyes raked over the stranger several times, taking in the skin-tight black clothes and bizarre white boots, palpable tension wound tightly within him, rippling off of his skin like a golden shroud. His presence was domineering. And achingly familiar.

Bulma's mouth thinned to a hard line, her eyes locking with his. Simultaneously black and blue eyes narrowed, two sets of lips upturning in a sneer. “ _You.”_

The asshole from The Lookout was stood in her living room, completely unapologetic, staring at her as if she was highly infectious with some sort of gross, mutated disease. As if _she_ were the one intruding on his personal space, and not the other way around. And somehow, by divine providence because the gods liked to screw with her, he was a _friend_ of Raditz's.

Fantastic.

Raditz looked between the two of them in confusion, eyes slipping from Bulma to Vegeta. “Wait, you guys know each other?”

The stranger said nothing, his nostrils flaring. It only angered Bulma more. Pointing at him, she hissed, “This is the asshole from work I was telling you about. The one who knocked coffee all over me and then cussed me out.”

Raditz chuckled nervously, a little too loudly and with a tad too much enthusiasm for the situation. “Huh, yeah, sounds like Vegeta.”

That seemed to get the guys attention. “Raditz, I thought you said this woman was _smart_.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Bulma asked, squaring up to the guy. He was only a few inches taller than her at _most,_ but the moment she got in his personal space Bulma felt the air vacate her lungs. His presence was oppressive, boasting a kind of strength she'd never come across before. For a split second she actually felt _scared_ , and then she spotted his smug face and the fear melted away. Replaced by unyielding rage.

“What do you think it means, _waitress_?” The asshole turned his attention back to Raditz. “What was it you called her? Easy? _Desperate?_ ”

Bulma blanched. The betrayal smacked her hard in the chest, and she had to stop herself staggering backwards in shock. “You called me easy and desperate?”

“Goddammit Vegeta! What the hell is wrong with you? No, I said you were _easy on the eyes_ and desperate for a new roommate,” Raditz grit out, throwing his arms up in frustration. “You know what, fuck this shit. I try and do a nice thing, and it's thrown back in my fucking face. Bulma, good look with your search. I'll come see you soon, baby girl. Vegeta, fuck you.”

“Wait, Ray, don't go,” Bulma fluttered her eyelashes, puckering her lips in a pout and extending her hand towards Raditz's wrist. He wavered for a second, before falling for the trap as she knew he would.

“Fine... I'll stay.”

An awkward silence settled in the apartment, Raditz shifting to place himself between his two friends. If she wasn't so pissed off Bulma probably would have found the scene hilarious; a giant wedged between two warring children who barely came up to his chest. Finally unable to take the silence any longer, Raditz was the one to break it.

“Bulma, meet Vegeta. Vegeta, meet Bulma. Clearly you guys have your own bullshit _but_ you both need something that the other one has to offer.”

Vegeta said nothing, his jaw working overtime in what Bulma could only assume was a combination of misguided pride and anger. Raditz shot his friend a pained look, nudging the shorter man with an elbow and motioning towards Bulma with his head. “C'mon, man. You're just shooting yourself in foot if you say no.”

And then it happened, Vegeta broke. In silent acquiescence his hands dropped to his sides, and his eyes rolled. “I don't do parties.”

Bulma shrugged, trying to play it cool. She wasn't sure if she wanted _him_ as her roommate, but she didn't want to be the one at fault for refusing to cooperate. “Me neither. A couple of times a month I have a few friends over to hang out. But it's only Raditz, his brother, his brother's wife and occasionally a few other friends, but that's about it.”

“Tch.”

“I work rotating shifts, but I won't wake you up in the mornings. I'll be going to auditions on my days off so you'll pretty much have the place to yourself,” Bulma added the second part for her own sake, rather than Vegeta's. It had been a depressingly long time since her last audition, and she kept telling herself that it was a slow season, and things would pick up again once she could share the financial load and concentrate more on her career, rather than her day job. “ _If_ you get the room.”

\--------

“Fuck it. Whatever. When can I move in?”

He wasn't sure what made him do it. Ego, probably. She was engaging, and he didn't want to back down, so he rose to her provocation and offered to take the room. Vegeta wasn't even sure he _wanted_ it. Wasn't sure he'd be able to live with _her_ without breaking his own moral code and strangling her. But there was something about her that got his back up, got the adrenaline pumping and electrified his spine. He couldn't back down, not now. He enjoyed the thrill of a decent challenge far too much.

Plus Raditz hadn't been kidding when he said she was pretty. Though the other man was no stranger to women, Vegeta usually took his opinions with a pinch of salt because, let's face it, he would readily fuck anything with a pulse, and then claim they were the hottest shit simply to stroke his own ego. So when he'd boasted that Potential Roommate was hot, Vegeta quite rightly had his reservations. But Bulma was actually _attractive_ , her distinctive aquamarine hair and eyes possessing an ethereal quality that he'd never come across before, if nothing else. And she was _tiny_ , a deceptive frailty that clashed with her explosive temper and inflated ego. She was all soft curves and thin wrists that looked like they'd snap if he held them too tightly. If Vegeta had a type, she'd probably be it.

Not that he had been paying her much attention, at least not in that regard. Not for long. He'd been too busy glaring at her and trying to decide whether or not the whole debacle had been set up by Zarbon and Frieza as a means of fucking with him. Maybe that's why they'd sent him on a coffee run, and that's why the surly waitress he'd laid into (but not laid) had been enquiring about a roommate. It was a huge game, the aim of which was to humiliate The Prince and grind him further into the dirt. Bulma _was_ a honeypot, simply playing her part in an elaborate ruse.

Except Raditz wasn't that smart, and he actually had an iota of respect for Vegeta that wasn't born in enslavement and outright fear. Vegeta suspected his 'friend' (though he preferred not to use that term because emotional attachments were for the weak) wouldn't betray him so easily, even for Frieza, and Bulma didn't seem the type to take orders. In fact, she was very much the commander of her own fate, as Vegeta had already seen. Her little display with Raditz hadn't gone unnoticed, and Vegeta couldn't help but wonder if she was actually interested in the would-be-womaniser, or she just knew which buttons to push in order to win the game. He suspected the latter was far more likely and the former left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

She frowned at him, her bottom lip jutting out in a childish pout and Vegeta's stomach flipped. “Tomorrow is fine by me.”

He extended his hand with a grin, and Bulma reluctantly took it. Her palms were sweaty, and her fingers shook in his grip, but her eyes screamed fire and defiance.

One of Raditz's giant paws clapped him on the back, the other firm on the woman's shoulder. “Great! Now that's sorted, who's for pizza? My treat. And by that I mean someone should treat me to a pizza, because I just solved all your fucking problems.” 

* * *

 

 

Fan art by the amazing [TheNotSoSuperSaiyan ](https://thenotsosupersaiyan.tumblr.com/post/173199322944/the-city-of-stars-okay-here-it-is-ive-been)

 


	2. Bad Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters - it's been a pretty chaotic few weeks with lots of real-life drama, so I've not had as much time to dedicate to writing as I would have liked. That being said, I was shocked and honoured to discover this story has been nominated for The Prince and The Heiress's "Best Undiscovered" category for their 2017 awards. Which really made me pull my finger out and force myself to find time to write.
> 
> This is a very Vegeta centric chapter (though in many ways this whole story will be more Vegeta's than Bulma's…) and relatively exposition heavy, so apologies in advance if it isn't to everyone's liking. 
> 
> Thank you all once again for your lovely reviews, they sustain me and give me life. As usual this is un-beta'd, so if you spot mistakes please let me know!

* * *

 

 _'Without a nickel to my name, hopped a bus, here I came. Could be brave or just insane, we'll have to see.'  
-_ La La Land (2016)

\--------

_> Raditz, if you're fucking with me I swear to god I will castrate you while you sleep._

_> I love you too GETES. [love heart] [love heart]_

Vegeta huffed at the bastardisation of his name, digging into his back pocket with his free hand to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He tried not to indulge in the habit often, not particularly enjoying the act anyway, but it was a way to keep warm, and he was fucking _freezing_ so he'd do what he had to snatch a little warmth. When the cigarette was lit and snug between his lips, he turned his attention back to his phone, angrily typing a reply.

_> Call me Getes again and no one will find your body._

_> You're cranky in the morning huh? _ Raditz's reply pinged seconds later, followed by a second. _> Actually you're always cranky. Have you ever considered naps?_

The phone went back into his pocket before he did something he would later regret, and Vegeta grimaced, ashing his cigarette and blowing a thin ring of smoke into the early morning sky. Ever the social butterfly, he had declined the offer of pizza the night before in spite of his stomach's noisy protests, and headed back to the motel to gather up his few personal belongings. He had suspected that his new roommate didn't want him hanging around anyway, and neither she nor Raditz put up much of a fight when he made his intentions to leave clear. In fact Bulma had look genuinely thrilled at the prospect, clearly not willing to completely forgive and forget. Not that Vegeta could blame her. He felt the same way. He wasn't a people person, only tolerated Raditz and Nappa because they we're marginally less annoying that any of Frieza's other minions, and only socialised when it was absolutely necessary.

But she needed a roommate to help ease her apparent financial worries, and he needed a place to crash that wouldn't break the bank to ease his, so they'd been left with little option other than to accept their new living arrangements. Which was why, despite himself, Vegeta was now leaning against the wall of the coffee shop he had some very _not_ fond memories of, waiting for a certain waitress-turned-roomie to come along and open up. Because if he had to live with the chick, he'd like to be at least semi-civil, and for once in his life he was willing to suck it up and be the bigger person. It would be nice to sleep in a comfortable bed without the worry of a shoot-out or one of Frieza's men intruding on his private moments. So if he had to be _nice_ to the bitch who had ruined his favourite hoody, so be it. Except he'd been waiting for Bulma to turn up for thirty minutes now without sucess, and it his already frayed patience was wearing dangerously thin. He pulled out his phone again, perching his cigarette between thinned lips as he began to type.

_> I thought you said she was opening the damn place up this morning?_

_> She is. Why didn't you just go to her place and meet her there?_

_> Because I didn't want to look like a fucking weirdo._

_> ...so you decided to wait for her outside her place of work at 5.30 in the morning? Huh. That's not creepy at all. [flushed face] _

Vegeta frowned at the message, trying to think of a wounding retort only to be distracted by a bobbing figure in his peripheral vision. He looked up to see Bulma as she crossed the parking lot; the crop of blue hair giving her away before anything else, head bowed, headphones securely in place as she fiddled with her cell phone. For a split second he frowned, frustrated by her naïveté. It was still dark out, and she was an attractive young woman walking all by herself in a shitty part of town, completely ignorant to her surroundings and wilfully endangering herself. She was asking to get jumped or _worse._ Vegeta crushed the remnants of his cigarette under his boot, thrusting his hands into his pockets and kicking off the wall.

Bulma finally glanced up at the movement, her eyes rolling to the back of her head and shoulders sagging as the recognised the form in front of her. She pulled out the headphones, forced her phone into her purse, and, with a withering look of pure annoyance, clamped her hands on her hips. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Vegeta shrugged. “It's my day off. Raditz told me you were working the morning shift. I figured I'd grab the keys and move my shit in. As long as you haven't changed your mind, that is.”

“Pfft.” Bulma fiddled with the keys to the cafe, sifting through various duds until she found the one she was looking for. Then she unhooked two additional brass keys from the set, dangling them in his direction. “Go get a set cut for yourself. I had the locks changed when Launch left but I never bothered making a spare pair.”

Vegeta snatched the keys, pocketing them quickly but making no effort to leave. Bulma unlocked the doors to the coffee shop, pursing her lips when she noticed that Vegeta was still lingering. He smirked at her palpable agitation, enjoying the easy rise and the way her cheeks flamed. The colour matched the bright pink tip of her frost-bitten nose quite nicely, clashing with her otherwise alabaster skin and the unique hue of her hair.

“Aren't you going to let me in?” Vegeta asked, his tone intentionally cocky in an effort to wind her up further. Living with her might actually be fun, if it was this easy to provoke her temper.

Bulma narrowed her eyes. “Why should I?”

“It's cold.” Vegeta punctuated the statement with a foggy breath and a smirk. “And it's my one day off this week and I'm here with you before six in the morning. Surely you're not that big of a bitch.”

“It's not like I asked you to come,” Bulma grouched, holding the door open for Vegeta to follow her inside anyway. “Just don't get in my way, I don't want to lose my job on top of everything else.”

He watched in silence as Bulma set to work, turning on machines and checking stock, doing whatever the hell else she had to do. Her movements were mechanical, frustrated, like those of a wild animal caged for far too long. When she started moving the chairs from atop the tables Vegeta joined in, partly because he didn't want to look like a _total_ dick in front of her (after all, this excursion had been an attempt to smooth things over somewhat), and in part because she was so _tiny_ that he was worried she might cause herself serious injury if he didn't help out. Bulma glanced up at him as he set to work, cocking her head to the side as if trying to work him out. When she apparently decided that Vegeta's intentions were good she flashed him a brief, half-hearted smile.

“I don't know why Popo makes me open up so early. Honestly, no-one ever comes in for hours. I think he just likes to punish me because he knows this is only a temporary gig.”

“Tch.” Vegeta was beginning to have second thoughts about this, not really one for small talk. Or talk of any kind, really. Not with normal people, at any rate. He'd never learnt how, never cared to learn as he got older. Figured he'd just work something out when the right time arose, keep his head down until then. It's not like he particularly _liked_ people anyway. What the hell did Raditz talk about when he was with the girl? Not work, surely?

 _'Hey Bulma, today I beat the shit out of a guy because he looked at my boss funny. I broke four of his ribs, fractured his wrist, and knocked two of his teeth out. How was **your** day?' _ Somehow it didn't seem like appropriate conversation for normal people. Then again, what did Vegeta know about being normal?

“Wow, the picture of articulation.” Bulma brewed them both a coffee, placing a steaming mug in front of Vegeta. He eyed it suspiciously for a second before pressing his fingers against the china and in an attempt to absorb its warmth. When he audibly moaned, his fingers coming to life again bit by bit, Bulma snorted.

“So,” She said slowly, quirking a brow. “Are you going to apologise to me?”

Vegeta considered it for all of a single second. “No.”

“Seriously? You're kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

“You're a real jackass, you know.”

Vegeta smirked. “I know.”

A silence settled between the two again, Bulma looking forlornly out of the window and at the empty parking lot, presumably hoping someone other than Vegeta would walk in and rescue her from this dire excuse of a conversation. Vegeta , on the other hand, was just glad to be out of the cold. He experimentally sipped at his drink, half expecting the coffee to be as bitter as the atmosphere in 'The Lookout', and found himself to be pleasantly surprised. Greedily, he guzzled down the rest of the coffee, slamming down the empty mug when he was done. “Christ, this is actually pretty good. I'm surprised. Maybe Zarbon wasn't being a complete dick after all.”

At least some of her anger had subsided and Bulma smirked over the brim of her own coffee. “You have Yajirobe to thank for that. He's a bean master, I swear.”

“Can I move in with this Yajirobe instead?”

“Don't push your luck. You're only here because I'm in desperate need of the funds and you're a friend of Raditz.”

“'Friend' is a term I'd use very loosely to describe that bastard. Eternal pain in my side would be much more fitting, but whatever.”

Bulma snorted, trying and failing to suppress a little burst of laughter. A ghost of a grin flashed across Vegeta's face in camaraderie for a moment, before he caught himself and regained his composure. There was another lull in the conversation, but this one was far more comfortable. Or, at least Bulma seemed more comfortable. She finished her drink, still occasionally glancing at the depressingly empty parking lot, watching the sky change colour as the sun began to peak through the clouds. When Bulma began to clear away her cup and tidy the cafe some more, making herself look as busy as possible, Vegeta preoccupied himself with his phone, reading through a string of messages in the 'work' group-chat in which Nappa bragged about his latest conquest (complete with a photo of Nappa and the poor girl he'd somehow coerced into sex, scarring Vegeta's retinas for life) and Raditz bitched about Frieza's unreasonable hours. His internet searches from the previous night were still open, and Vegeta decided to take the plunge.

“I googled you.” He said simply, forcing eye contact as he spoke.

“You GOOGLED me?!” Bulma looked and sounded horrified, the blood draining from her face. She very nearly smashed the cup she was holding, her fingers suddenly dangerously slack.

“Of course. You could be a mass murderer and I could be walking into some Single White Female shit.”

Her fingers curled, tightening again.“...And?”

Crossing his arms across his chest, Vegeta stared at her, enjoying the way she paled and squirmed under his gaze. “You're a Briefs, as in the 'Capsule Corporation' Briefs. Heiress to the biggest tech company in the world, front runner of most of their latest inventions.”

“Yes,” Bulma said, swallowing hard. “Oh _no._ ”

“So my question is this,” Vegeta continued, feeling smug at the efficaciousness of his words. The moment he'd discovered who she was he'd been preparing himself for some sort of reaction – girls in her position didn't just disappear under the radar without good reason - but the combustion of her arrogant mask was a sight for sore eyes, and set his nerves ablaze. He had her, he had fucking leverage over the woman who had ruined his favourite article of clothing and he was going to savour every single second of her discomfort. It was petty, but Vegeta didn't claim to be anything but. “The fuck are you doing here?”

Bulma's shoulders sagged, although some of the colour was beginning to return to her cheeks in a spike of frustration. “I was miserable and on the verge of a goddamn breakdown pursuing my father's dreams instead of my own. I was either going to commit suicide or homicide if I didn't get out.”

And then any leverage he had over her slipped from his grasp with the turning of the tables, and Vegeta was struck full force in the chest by the weight of her honesty, having not expected anything close to her confession. It was disarming; they were practically total strangers, thrust together by circumstance and an overly zealous mutual acquaintance. There was no way he'd confess something so personal so easily, in fact Vegeta was sure that there was no-one that knew the intricacies of his miserable life, save for those dishing out the misery. He'd certainly never willingly _told_ anyone anything about himself, never made himself so vulnerable. He'd expected more squirming, more uncomfortable avoidance and pleading not to push the topic. Not... this. Trying not to let his surprise show, he made a gruff 'tch' noise, adding: “always go with the latter. Much more fun.”

Apparently he had said the wrong thing, if the way Bulma's brows immediately knitted together was anything to go by. “Jesus, Vegeta. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You know, you're not the first person to ask me that.”

“Shocking.”

“So, what's the deal? Couldn't meet expectations or have some sort of breakdown or something?” Vegeta asked bluntly, trying to work out her failings and regain some control.

“No. Opposite, actually. I was mid-way through a PhD when I left. Younger than my dad was when he started his. But being cooped up in that lab all day just to make him happy was a nightmare. I wanted to see more, to be more. I want to reach out and touch the stars. My parents didn't take too kindly to that and gave me the option to suck it up and keep my trust fund, or pursue my dreams but make it on my own. So I did what any other sensible girl would do and threw away every penny I had to chase a pipe-dream.”

Vegeta grunted; he could understand her logic, even if he didn't necessarily agree with her career path. Wanting to be your own person and live freely was his singular goal, and though their shackles may be worlds apart, they were shackled nonetheless, and the fact she'd managed to splinter away from those holding her back was admirable. On the other hand she had fluttered away _millions,_ enough to secure Vegeta's freedom ten times over, on a dream that would likely never come true. While she was unquestionable a genius she clearly lacked any sort of common sense, and her foolishness made him want to throttle her.

“Here's the thing I don't get, if you're such a genius, why are you stuck serving pretentious coffees to hipsters and handing out head shots to shitty, z-rated studios? How the hell does a woman who obtained a Masters degree while still in high school, the daughter of the richest guy on the planet, end up working a shitty job like this with _Raditz_ of all people are a comrade?” His tone was scathing, betraying the annoyance bubbling within him.

“I was friends with Ray before all of this, his little brother and I have been friends since we were tiny. My parents wanted me to take over the family business, I didn't. I left to become an actress, lost my inheritance and needed money. The only job I ever had was at Capsule Corp., and my father's reference was... scathing to say the least. I needed a job that would be flexible enough to allow me to work around auditions and shoots, which is how I ended up here.”

“Huh.” Vegeta didn't really know what else to say. The damn woman was insistent on spilling her guts and sharing her life story with a stranger who beat people half to death for a living, and it was making Vegeta feel mighty uncomfortable. Maybe this was her plan all along; to sweat Vegeta out so that _he_ was the one to withdraw his applicancy. _Clever little bitch._ Itching to escape the situation, if only for a few minutes, Vegeta rose to his feet.“Bathroom?”

Bulma nodded towards the back of the store, and without another word Vegeta left her to her job – the one she was dutifully neglecting to engage with him – and shut himself away in the restroom.

Vegeta stared down his reflection, bracing his hands on either sink and frowning. The bruise under his eye was finally clearing up, in that residual stage of dulling yellows and greens, but he still looked like shit. The bags under his eyes were evidence of his permanent lack of sleep, and over a decade worth of scars peaked out from beneath his shirt. He wasn't sure what compelled Bulma to say yes, to agree to moving in with someone like _him_ when she didn't know him and their only prior encounter involved a tongue lashing in this very establishment. He suspected that, like him, she hadn't wanted to lose face in front of Raditz, but he couldn't be so sure.

Vegeta checked his phone half-hoping he hadn't received any demands calling for his presence on his day off, half-hoping he _would_ just so he could retreat from Bulma and call this whole thing off. Nothing, though he did have a string of increasingly frantic text messages from Raditz to sift through.

 _> How's it going?[smiley face]_  
>Try not to be such a dick to her. She's nice.  
>Vegeta?  
>?????????!  
_> Fuck. I knew this was a bad idea._  
_ >Vegeta please answer me. Otherwise I'm gonna have to leave Nappa to handle this job alone so I can come make sure you haven't done something stupid._  
_ >VE_  
_> GE_  
_> TA  
_ _>!!_

Vegeta huffed as he tapped out a message, honestly pissed off that Raditz thought so little of him and his self-control.  
_> Concentrate on work, jackass. Everything is fine here. _

And it was fine, wasn't it? He'd shot a man at _ten_ years old, albeit only in the shoulder, he could handle a little blue-haired spit-fire and her mind games, right? Besides, he admired her tenacity in his own weird way. She held her own and had a habit of scrabbling for dominance despite the imposing figure he knew he cut. It was almost impressive.

Vegeta was still steeling himself against the sink, trying to formulate a new plan, when he heard the faint chimes of the bell above the shop door, followed by mumbled voices. He thought nothing of it, other than the relief that there was _finally_ going to be someone else to effectively put an end to his already over-maxed daily quota of social interaction.

Then there was a clatter of something metallic crashing against the floor, followed by a shrill cry, and Vegeta's heart sank.

 _Of course._ As if things were ever going to go smoothly for him.

Silently, Vegeta cracked the door open and peered through, his eyes narrowing when they alighted on the source of the noise.

“Get the hell off me.”

“C'mon sweetheart, don't play hard to get. A pretty little thing like you should be glad I'm giving you attention.”

Bulma was being cornered by a man in a hideous green, purple and pink bomber jacket, a pair of sunglasses perched atop his head, buried in slicked back bright white hair. He hadn't noticed Vegeta, even when the later made his way from his hiding spot and out into the open; too preoccupied with hassling the woman cowering in front of him, his face split in a buck-toothed grin that only grew wider with every repulsed noise Bulma made. She was trying to squirm away but he grabbed her wrist and pinned it above her head, eliciting a yelp when the back of her hand crashed against the wall. A frightened sob broke forth from her lips, and a fire began to swell in the pit of Vegeta's stomach.

“Please, just leave me alone and I promise I wont call the police.”

 _Oh look at that, it would seem the little prince is too weak to break free. What should we do with him next, Dodoria?_  
Hmm, I don't know Zarbon, what do you suggest?  
I have a good idea... heh, did you hear that? I think I broke his wrist. How **pathetic**.  
That'll teach him for trying to fight back.

“Just stop fighting back, sweetheart. I promise I'll try to be gentle.”

Vegeta launched himself at the kid, ripping him from Bulma by the forearm and twisting the limb behind his back until the man squealed in pain. He reeked of cheap beer, and Vegeta pressed the other man's face into the wall, grinding skin against the exposed brick despite the shrieks of pain. He could see Bulma dash away in his periphery, probably to all the cops or her boss, but Vegeta could focus on little else than the pathetic creature in his vice-like grip.

“Hey buddy, you don't want to mess with me,” The guy hissed, attempting to motion to a patch – two black ears - sewn on the sleeve of his jacket. “I'm with the Usagi”

Vegeta couldn't help but laugh out loud at his pathetic attempt at a threat, and just for the insolence he twisted the man's wrist sharply. Tendons and bone cried out in protest beneath Vegeta's fingers, on the verge of coming apart, and the Usagi cried out.

“Do you think that a _rabbit_ scares me?” Vegeta asked, still laughing. He leant in closer, pressing his lips to the shell of the other man's ear. “Don't you recognise me? You should, I am The Prince after all.”

What little colour was left in the guy's face drained immediately, and he began to sob out a string of expletives and apologies. “I didn't know man, I didn't know. I didn't think this was Cold territory... If I'd have known she was your girl I'd never have... I was just... fuck, please don't hurt me. I'm sorry man, I'm fucking _sorry._ ”

“Your lack of pride disgusts me, but then you Usagi are all the same. You think you're a tough guy because you attack defenceless women? ” Vegeta growled, twisting the limb in his grip the wrong way. He felt _something_ ping and give way under the force, a sickening crack echoing around the small coffee shop. The guy was trying to push Vegeta off but failing miserably. Every time he attempted to shrug Vegeta's bulk away, Vegeta just increased the pressure, splintering what was already evidentially broken into smaller pieces. “If you want to play this game, play it with me. I'll rip this arm from your body if you so much as breathe in the same direction as her again. And if you ever come back I'll kill you.”

Vegeta suddenly released the man, who subsequently dropped to the floor like dead weight. His booted foot met the Usagi's ribs in a single sharp kick, urging him to get the fuck up and move the fuck out if he wanted to leave 'The Lookout' in anything less than a stretcher. Taking the hint the guy scrambled to his feet, clutching his now useless arm to his chest and sprinting out of the door without so much as a backwards glance. When the fleeing figure bobbed out of view Vegeta turned his attention to the wreckage in the coffee shop, tensing his jaw and frowning.

Bulma was shaking, now sat on the floor against the far wall with her arms wrapped around her knees. Several metal jugs and a tray lay on the floor, by her side, but other than that the damage to the establishment itself was minimal. The girl, however, was quaking, and it occurred to him that this probably wasn't an everyday occurrence in Bulma's life as it was in his. Vegeta pressed his lips into a hard line but extended a hand towards her, feeling somewhat relieved when she took it without hesitation and slipped her own pale, tiny hand into his. He'd assumed that his display would have frightened her, repulsed her and inspired a terrified tirade about how he was a monster and he needed to get away from her _now._ The thought of her suddenly rejecting him made him feel oddly morose, and her acceptance of him inspired a rush of relief. He helped Bulma to her feet, steadying her when she faltered, and gave her a once over. Overall she seemed okay and he very nearly let go of her hand. But just as he was releasing his grip he spotted the all-too familiar purpling shadow of flesh and wordlessly he resumed his assessment. He inspected her hand, turning it over and frowning when he saw the scrapes marring her skin and finger shaped marks on her delicate wrist. She was so alarmingly fragile, and his earlier worries of her carelessness came fluttering back to the forefront of his mind.

“You should ice and wrap your hand. You're not badly hurt, but it'll sting otherwise.”

“...Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”

“I think you broke his arm,” Bulma said quietly, gnawing on her lip.

“I did.”

“...Shit.”

For a hot minute Vegeta worried that she was going to rescind her invitation and he'd be back to living out of motels until he was able to pave his own way.

But then Bulma looked at Vegeta and he was suddenly engulfed by her baby blues; unable to form anything other than incoherent babble as the circuits in his mind malfunctioned and began to self-destruct. No one had ever looked at him like that before. He was drowning in a sea of warmth, of fond veneration that existed only for him, each shard of cobalt and cornflower and turquoise that came together to form the shimmering ocean of her eyes expressing their own shade of gratitude. He'd been looked at many ways over the entirety of his miserable life. As a newly indoctrinated child Nappa had looked at him with raw pity that Vegeta had quickly grown to resent. Frieza looked at him with mocking disgust, though he would occasionally offer him a predatory stare of approval upon a job well done. Men had looked at him with unfiltered fear as they pissed their pants, knowing he was a nightmare summoned from the shadows to wreak havoc at his bosses command. Zarbon, Cui and Dodoria offered him little more than lofty abhorrence, and Raditz wore a goofy expression that suggested respect and a need for companionship. Even the girls he'd bedded only looked at him with an glazed expression that promised the hint of biological urges but nothing substantial. But the way Bulma was looking at him was startlingly new and sincere; soft and kind and _adoring_. Vegeta's lungs began to beg for oxygen, pleading with him to swim to the surface before he drowned, and he released the breath he unconsciously held.

A strangled sound crept from his lips when he tried to speak, and he would have been mortified if not for the fact he couldn't really _think._ And then finally Bulma blinked, breaking the spell long enough for Vegeta to regain his composure and counteract the heat rising to his cheeks with a curt, “so, does this happen a lot?”

“Not really. It's mostly hipsters and kids... but you get the occasional guy like _him,_ ” Bulma said. And then the tight fear began to dissipate from her body, and she relaxed enough to chuckle. “Guys who scream at waitresses because they can't handle their own coffee, that sort of thing.”

“Maybe sometimes you deserve it.”

“I guess I can't really stay mad at you for being a jerk and for looking me up, huh?” Bulma hummed. “You're kind of my hero now.”

Vegeta choked again, this time embarrassingly aware of the noise and the flaming of his skin, looking and feeling utterly aghast. He was no hero. He'd never been a hero. Had no desires to ever be a hero. He was the kind of guy people went out of their way to avoid, both on the street and in a professional capacity, and the fact he'd roughed up a member of a rival gang didn't negate that. In fact, it pretty much supported the argument that he was a piece of shit. “Did you hit your head or something? Because I'm fairly certain I just broke someone's arm mere meters away from you, and yet here you are acting as though I'm some sort of saviour.” He had been under the impression that she'd at least known the basics of his job, she was friends with Raditz after all, but the _gratitude_ still unashamedly radiating from her impossibly bright blue eyes suggested she currently saw him as nothing but a white knight. Any ill will she held towards him had evidentially evaporated, and the sincerity of her expression made Vegeta's gut clench. For good measure he added, “I'm not a good man, Bulma.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” She grinned salaciously, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, still soppy and laced with an endearment that made his heart spasm with its unfamiliarity.

“Bulma...”

She raised a hand and waved away whatever Vegeta was about to say next.“You know, you're actually kind of cute when you're not attempting to give me third degree burns and screaming in my face.”

“And you're a somewhat less annoying when you're not being a raging bitch,” Vegeta chanced a glance at Bulma, feeling a little less on edge when he noticed that the suffocating look in her eyes had vanished and she was back to her usual fiery self. “I'm still not going to apologise.”

“You are such a dick _._ ”

\--------

He had to get Raditz to text him the address again, after informing him of his little altercation incase anyone decided to retaliate, and when he pulled up outside of his new _home_ Vegeta couldn't help but wonder if he was making a big mistake. He was so tantalisingly close to getting free, and now he was committing himself to four walls and a girl he barely knew, much less tolerated.

But at least he had a base of operations now.

He'd stayed with Bulma until patrons – mostly students with ridiculous orders that sounded more like obscure band names than coffee blends – began creeping in, laptops and journals and aesthetic-only books in tow. Vegeta had felt inexplicably compelled to stick around until he could at least somewhat assure her safety, resulting in her kicking him out around the nine am. mark, meaning he'd spent at least three hours in her company. Which was a new personal best for Vegeta.

Hauling his shit into his new quarters had been a ridiculously easy task, he only had a few bags of clothes and some other belongings to his name, not one for sentimentality or frivolous spending,

The room's walls were hideously _pink,_ but it was better than nothing. Someone – he logically presumed Bulma – had made the bed for him, simply royal blue sheets with a gold thread trim, a deep burgundy blanket folded neatly at the bottom.

Bulma had offered her a brief tour of the apartment during their terse _official_ introduction, but nothing substantial. More of a vague gesturing of hands in the direction of rooms and furniture, her pretty little face twisted in a scowl that begged him to leave before she ripped him a new one. So Vegeta took the time to look around at his own leisure, to acclimatise to the dwelling that would be his for the foreseeable future.

The kitchenette cupboards were mostly stocked with an inordinate amount of Cupnoodles in a variety of flavours he hadn't even known existed, slightly out of date milk and the miserable remains of a six pack decaying in the fridge. The living room was simple; a sofa, an arm chair and a slightly deflated beanbag, all of contrasting colours and styles that made Vegeta think they were bought with a budget and functionality in mind rather than for decorative purposes. A games console of sorts was plugged into the TV (though Vegeta definitely wouldn't be able to recognise the brand, having never really had the time or inclination to have fun), the controllers and the box of a fighting game resting on the coffee table next to two empty pizza boxes that definitely weren't there when he'd left the night before. The little shared bathroom boasted a shower _and_ a tiny tub, overrun by shampoos and lotions and other bullshit, but at least preferential to the rusted pipe that his current motel had been trying to pass off as a shower.

Which left only one corner of the apartment unexplored.

A lifetime of abject humiliation, systematic abuse, and habitual betrayal had taught him that he could never be too careful, and despite breaking several social rules, Vegeta found himself gravitating towards Bulma's bedroom. He pushed the door handle and it gave easily, proving that she didn't bother with the locks and she really was just a magnet for danger. Vegeta poked his head through the crack of her bedroom door and peaked around, subconsciously reaching down for his gun. When he found his search to be fruitless he remembered where he was and what he was doing, rolling his eyes at himself and just walked in like a regular human being.

Her room was simple, if not chaotic. A freestanding full-length mirror partially obscured by a variety of clothes thrown recklessly over it, cut outs of silver screen stars jammed between the visible frame and glass. Magazines were scattered across the foot of her bed, a juxtaposition of trashy tabloids and scientific quarterlies, and a raggedy stuffed cat Vegeta assumed was a relic from childhood peaked out from between her pillows. A small pile of books – most romance novels – balanced on the little table to the side of her bed, a double photo frame taking up the remaining room.

Out of curiosity Vegeta edged closer, careful not to displace the tangle of pyjamas (a white shorts and tank top combo, littered with orange spheres) on the floor, in an attempt to pacify his growing intrigue. Vegeta picked up the frame, turning it over to better inspect it. It contained two photos; the first of Bulma, only a teenager by the look of her, arm slung comfortably around the shoulders of a boy her age with a wild shock of black hair, Raditz towering behind them both and holding them in a sort of huddled embrace. They were all beaming, the joy radiating through the glossy print like a crackling aura. The second photo had a much different feeling to the first. Bulma was in some sort of jumpsuit, grimy and covered what he assumed was grease and oil, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She was stood next to a machine of sorts, with an elderly man in a lab coat on her one side and a blonde woman on her other. She was smiling, but it didn't reach her eyes, nor did it contain the same sincerity as the previous photo. Vegeta frowned and placed the frame carefully down in the same spot she had left it, moving on.

Vegeta's eyes roamed over to her dresser, several more framed photographs cluttering the surface. Mostly of her and the man who _wasn't_ Raditz throughout various stages of her life, a few others containing random combinations of strangers – almost all of them men - and their suffocatingly mutual _acquaintance,_ Raditz.

It was a group photo, fairly recent if the cut of her hair was anything to go by, a gaggle of people all crammed together in a single space. They were at a beach, Bulma stood front and center wearing an indecently tiny pink bikini, Raditz leaning over her and hugging her about the waist with one arm, the other raised into the air flashing a peace sign. They were both laughing at something, eyes scrunched up in glee, but where Bulma was facing the camera, Raditz was staring intently at _her,_ his expression pitifully adoring. Vegeta knew very little about romance, preferring his relationships to span the course of a night and an orgasm or two at _most,_ but even he could tell Raditz had it _bad_ for this girl. It was more than just the desire to fuck her, as he'd originally put across, but something beyond Vegeta's basic comprehension. Beside them stood an incredibly _jacked_ guy with a shaved head, almost as tall as Raditz, his arms stiff by his side either because he was mildly uncomfortable, or the enormous swell of his muscles prevented him from standing any other way, Vegeta couldn't tell. Next to him was a blonde in a green bikini with her fingers folded into the shape of a gun pointing threateningly at the camera, and a much shorter kid – deathly pale, his head also shaved, his cheeks tomato red with sunburn. The black-haired man from the first photo was present – the dictionary definition of athleticism - wearing an obnoxiously _orange_ pair of trunks and balancing a toddler precariously on his bicep. He was being nuzzled by a short, dark haired woman in a yellow swimsuit who appeared to be the child's mother, if the outstretched hand affectionately offering the baby additional support was anything to go by, assuaging Vegeta's mounting suspicion that the reason Raditz failed to get anywhere with Bulma was because she was already romantically entangled with their other friend. Finally, there was another couple, a ridiculously _short_ guy (who would make Vegeta look like a giant) with short black hair that fell in messy curtains either side of his face, and a woman who looked a little like Bulma (only taller and _much_ bustier, though, Vegeta thought, not as pretty), her hair a similar hue of blue; arms draped lazily about the man's shoulders.

It was as thought the photo had been plucked out of some cheesy teen movie about the importance of friendship, so sugary sweet in its sentimentality that it threatened to give Vegeta a toothache. It was all bright colours and beaming smiles, but despite the screaming cliché of it, utterly real. There was nothing to suggest that these people were faking it for prosperity purposes. Vegeta grimaced, struck with the realisation that he may have to endure the company of all of Bulma's friends on at least a semi-regular basis. What was it that she said? Something about having friends over a couple of times a month? It had felt bearable, but definitely not preferable, the night before when he'd assumed her social circle was as tight as his was, but now – with the evidence of her apparent popularity - he was beginning to regret their agreement. And not for the first time.

Still, he couldn't help the pang of curiosity and _something else_ he couldn't quite name; Raditz seemed to live a normal, happy life outside of 'work' (though glorified slavery seemed a much more accurate term), one Vegeta had always assumed was far beyond his reach. What's more, he'd never mentioned his ability to at least somewhat comfortably juggle the two worlds in the entire time Vegeta had known him. Sure, Vegeta knew he had a brother, and he'd mumbled about having plans with friends in passing, but he'd never given any indication that he could stray so from beneath Freiza's thumb. Vegeta had just assumed that Raditz's existence was as miserable and empty as his own, and the revelation that _Raditz_ of all people was superior to him in some way was a punch in the gut.

Perhaps it was because his debt wasn't so intense, or perhaps it was because he hadn't been sold to Frieza as a child, doomed to carry his father's burdens and to be beaten black and blue before he could ride a bike. Perhaps it was because he was better looking (a fact Vegeta had accepted begrudgingly when it became apparent that Frieza's girls were more than happy to swoon over the taller, hairier of the two, and visibly afraid to interact with Vegeta on any level), more _normal_.

Perhaps it was all of those things. Or none of them.

Fuck him. Fuck Raditz right in his stupid fucking face.

With an undignified swell of frustration building in the pit of his stomach, Vegeta retreated from Bulma's room, returning to his own and settling on the edge of his bed. As if on cue his phone buzzed, indicating a message from a number he hadn't stored and didn't recognise, though it's sender became obvious the moment he opened it.

_> Hey Bad Man [fist] [flexing muscles] settling in okay?_

The woman.

_>...How did you get this number?_

_> I have my sources. [smiley face] _

_> I fucking hate Raditz_

_> Leave Ray alone. [frowny face] he said YOU text him about what happened. He was only checking up on me. _

_> Why do you call him that?_

_> What?_

_> 'Ray'._

_> Because he's my little ray of sunshine. [smiley face] [sun]_

Vegeta didn't know whether to gag or laugh at the revelation, and went with a bizarre hybridization of the two. _> Aren't you supposed to be working? _

Within seconds Bulma pinged back.  
_> Bean Master turned up [coffee cup]. So I'm on my break. Aren't you supposed to be moving in?_

_> I'm done. _

_> No way! [shocked face] Already?_

_> I don't have a lot of stuff._

_> Why not?_

_> Things cost money, princess. We aren't all lucky enough to have grown up with DinoCaps sales funding our piggybanks._

A few minutes ticked by with no response, and Vegeta couldn't help but wonder if he'd ticked her off enough that she'd finally leave him alone. The thought pleased him for a while, but as two minutes turned into three, and three into four, he found himself glancing at the depressingly blank phone screen. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, it vibrated again.

_> I'm gonna let that one slide, but only because you were my knight in shining armour today. But if you piss me off I'm going to show you that you're not the only one who can be scary. [devil face] [winky face]_

Some logical part of his brain told him he shouldn't stand for any sort of threat, no matter who from and however playful they were in nature. Letting threats slide by in his game got you hurt; got you stabbed or even killed. Threats were not to be taken lightly. Ever. The fact that he dished them out to his comrades and underlings meant nothing, merely a way of keeping them in line. If push came to shove and he actually needed to carry through, he would. They knew it, he knew it. It's what helped him maintain what little respect he had.

But the illogical part of his brain got no further than the words 'knight in shining armour', his mouth suddenly going dry. He was lost in the memory of her eyes, drowning in the ghost of them all over again, struggling to find the traction to swim to the surface.

No one had ever looked at him like that before.

No one had ever made him feel like he was special before. Like he was important. Like what he'd done had mattered.

No one had ever switched from hating him to admiring him so quickly before.

No one had ever made him _care_ what they thought of him before.

Bulma Briefs, one of the smartest, richest (or, at least, _formally_ ), and sought after women in the world had called Vegeta Breigh - glorified bouncer and child slave – her knight in shining armour. It felt... surprisingly good.

However, the realisation that it felt good was a freight train hurtling straight for him with nowhere to run. Vegeta tossed the phone to the side and threw an arm over his eyes, groaning into the flesh and once again cursing the gods for continually tormenting him, and himself for ever agreeing to move in.

“ _Shit._ ”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hundred points for those of you who can work out the identity of Bulma's assailant. One of my favourite 'bit part' characters of the whole franchise (for no reason other than I found them to be funny when I was a little kid and first started watching the show), I couldn't help but find a way to include them! 
> 
> For more information regarding posting schedules, or for updates on my other story 'Imbroglio', please check out my [Tumblr](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/writing)


	3. Rope-A-Dope

_'I'm letting life hit me until it gets tired. Then I'll hit back. It's a classic rope-a-dope.'  
-_ Sebastian Wilder, La La Land (2016)

\--------

Living with Vegeta, as Bulma quickly discovered, wasn't the worst thing in the world. She hadn't exactly been over-joyed upon discovering her new roommate was none other than the jackass who had ruined an already increasingly shitty day, so the fact that he didn't make her life completely miserable just for the hell of it was a pleasant and more than welcome surprise. That being said, his violent act of heroism had worked wonders in terms of his general likability, and she found that scraping through the scum of his personality revealed someone who was obviously rough around the edges, but with Real Friend potential.

She'd already grown quite fond of him, even if he didn't exactly _do_ much beyond grumble and gripe between excessive bouts at the gym and work. Her friends had always made every effort to spend with the her, but there was no denying that Launch taking off and abandoning her had _seriously_ wounded Bulma's social life, sapping her of human interaction and leaving her alone with long, empty stretches of silence. Bulma wasn't accustomed to it, and festered miserably in the empty walls of her home whenever left to her own devices. But Vegeta offered a little comfort. He was neat, almost military-like, but evidence of his existence had began creeping into their shared spaces in the form of thick black hoodies toasting on the radiator, or boot polish forgotten on the coffee table, and it helped put Bulma at ease. His brooding figure was evident even if it wasn't visible; somehow possessing the uncanny ability to make his presence known without actually being, well, _present._

He'd _slowly_ started coming out of his shell, joining her on the couch in the evenings with a beer in hand as she watched TV – usually to scathingly criticise whatever was on and mock the state of modern television. He bitched and griped about most things but it was comfortable, and his willingness to engage her with her in _actual_ conversation had increased so dramatically in such a short space of time that Bulma had to question herself as to whether she might have some sort of magic power, or whether her standards for social interaction had just fallen dramatically. Whatever the answer she quite liked having him around; he staved off the loneliness and the boredom quite well, and made her feel _safe._ After all, she now had her own personal body-guard who had already come to her rescue once in the short while they'd known each other.

Plus the extra income worked pretty nicely in her favour, and she could afford small luxuries such as actual name-brand cereals instead of supermarket knock-offs, and an extra topping on her pizza.

The fact that he'd paid his first month's rent in cold, hard cash – more than Launch had _ever_ paid for a single month, and still acting as though he'd grabbed himself a deal – dropping it on the kitchenette countertop like it was no big deal was something Bulma tried not to dwell on. Sure, it was sketchy, but money was money, and she liked being able to pay bills and keep a roof over her head more than she liked to think about the questionable morality behind Vegeta's earnings. It seemed kind of unfair to chew Vegeta up for doing the same job as Raditz, so she afforded him the luxury of oversight.

A creaking of the door sharpened Bulma's focus, but it was little more than some _nobody_ returning from the bathrooms looking suspiciously buzzed. They returned to their spot with a audible sniff and pulled out a tablet (made by Capsule Corp., of course, one of Bulma's own designs), silently mouthing the words burned into Bulma's mind with a branding iron. Pulling her gaze off of the car-crash-in-waiting, Bulma looked around the hallway to take in the sea of faces; many reading from scraps of paper and mumbling quietly to themselves, occasionally glancing up to regard her just as anxiously. The room crackled with nervous energy, each girl more worked up than the last, and Bulma could feel it seeping through to her and sinking into her own bones. She dared to glance at the clock on the wall for the dozenth time, knowing she was only setting herself up for disappointment.

11.34am.

Her slot was supposed to be at 10.55, but apparently they were running late.

As per usual.

Bulma chewed on the skin around her thumbnail, wondering if auditions ever got any easier. If the sinking dread anchoring her to the seat would ever dissipate into the cool shroud of confidence that cloaked every other aspect of her life. She hated feeling so unsure of herself, of her own ability. She was a certified genius with a killer body, she'd never had reason to be anything but arrogantly self-assured. She was used to walking easily, _bravely,_ into any scenario and the bubbling pit of anxiety that accompanied her to every audition like an over-zealous and very unwelcome mother had been a shocking new sensation that she was still yet to wrap her head around.

Maybe it was because _this_ was the first thing she was really passionate about, the first thing that was her own.

Maybe it was because she just wasn't good enough.

Bulma's confidence cracked at the thought, a rising swell of panic bubbling in the pit of her already unsettled stomach. Deciding not to sit and mope about, Bulma fished in her purse for her phone, hoping some mindless game or scrolling through social media would help numb her concerns. A small smile tugged at her lips when she switched on her cell, her heart fluttering in delight. Goku, Chi Chi, Raditz and Krillin had all text her, and the little surge of love radiating from her friends through her phone helped appease her nerves. If only minutely.

> _GOOD LUCK BULMA [fist] [smiley face] UR GOING TO SMASH IT. SEE YA LATER._

 _>_ _Call me as soon as you're done. I know you can do this xx_

_> You got this Blue. They'd be idiots to choose anyone over you.  
>It's been a while but I heard you had an audition today. You can do this! [smiley face] PS I'll let you know when I'm back in town and we can all hang out. _

Then there was a fifth message, from a number not usually in her roster of personal cheerleaders. It was short, sweet, and to the point, but it made her breath catch in her throat.

 _>_ _Good luck._

Vegeta.

Huh.

She hadn't even told him she was attending an audition today. At least, not anything more substantially than a passing comment made _weeks_ ago when he'd first moved in, a comment that had been more for her own benefit than for his. The fact that he'd even remembered was astonishing. The fact that he cared enough to check up on her felt like a tiny victory in her favour, tangible proof that he _did_ indeed have a heart.

Choosing to ignore the first four senders for the time being, she tapped back a quick reply.

> _Thank you! [smiley face] [smiley face] [love heart] Are you still on for tonight?[kissy face][streamers]_

Almost immediately a bubble with three dots appeared, letting her know that Vegeta was constructing a reply.

_> No. But that's not going to stop you._

Bulma grinned at her phone. _No, it wasn't._

She'd spent the last few weeks letting Vegeta settle in; allowing him to acclimatise at his own pace like a nervous stray brought into a home for the first time. She'd made sure her friends had kept their distance, but tonight ended that social dry spell. Tonight she was having friends over whether her new lodger liked it or not, though she'd definitely prefer the former. He had his little routines, mostly involving his job, the gym, and his never ending appetite, and she was hoping that game and movie nights with the others would slot comfortably into his strict regime.

Vegeta seemed so painfully lonely, and she was sure that the whole tough-guy bullshit was little more than an act that concealed something much softer, and in desperate need of nurturing.

She wanted him to be part of the gang. To have some real friends.

She was nothing if not an optimist.

_> Oh don't be a big baby. [winky face]_

> _Nervous?_

_> What makes you think I'm nervous?? [shocked face]_

_> You're responding to my texts instead of prepping or conversing with the other girls who are auditioning. _

> _Maybe I'm just bored. If I'm bothering you I'll leave you alone, BYE [sad face][angry face]_

There was a delay in his replies, and as the seconds ticked by Bulma could feel the worry begin to nibble at her fingertips once more, her knee juddering up and down without her consent. She was the only one in the room with her colour hair, which put her at an advantage, right? It set her apart, made her look unique. Striking. That's what all the boys at school would say as the salivated over her and tried to curry favour with her. It had certainly drawn a lot of attention her way in her lifetime; a slew of spotty teenage boys and lewd, predatory men eager to find out if the curtains really matched the carpet, sweet older ladies petting her head and telling her how pretty her hair was, hairdressers double-taking and asking if it was _really_ real.

But what if these people just didn't want blue? What if they'd wanted a specific hair colour and she'd failed to read that little slice of information properly?

What if Bulma had only been called in to add a splash of diversity to the crowd so at least the casting directors could say they'd at least tried?

Her fingertips twitched anxiously, and she redirected her attention back to her phone.

_> Vegeta? [sad face]_

Her phone vibrated in her hand. Then again. And again. In an instant Bulma felt more human, and her nerves began to settle.

 _> I had a work thing. I do have an actual job. _  
>Who the fuck is THIS girl?  
>The Bulma I've been forced to get to know wouldn't mope around texting. She'd be getting up and getting what she fucking wants.

There was a brief lull, barely even enough time for Bulma to formulate a response, much less type it, before her phone buzzed again.  
_> Be the Bulma who ruined my hoody and my day. Who chewed me out and gave me shit when it was HER fault. She'd take no prisoners. She could do anything._

Vegeta barely knew her, yet he seemed to have so much faith in her. Her friends, as much as she adored them and had never known a life without them, were almost obligated to support her after years of shared experiences and bad decisions. They would say the things she wanted to hear just because they knew she wanted to hear them, and would do anything to make her feel better about herself. Vegeta had no such obligation, had no prior loyalty. He was just being nice because he actually _believed_ in her. It was a far cry from the moody asshole who had turned up at her door one night with Raditz in tow, but the jarring contrast served to make Vegeta seem all the more endearing, to validate his sweetness even further. She hadn't known him long but it was obvious that he was not one for pleasantries or sugared words merely for the sake of appeasing others, so his confidence in her was entirely genuine.

Bulma was about to reply when the door to the casting room opened and two women walked out. The first, a tall blonde in a highly revealing, avant-garde blue and red _thing_ that even Bulma wouldn't dream of wearing. She exuded confidence, the twinkle of her eyes and the upturn of her lips suggesting she could have the world bowing at her feet and she knew it. It was a look Bulma knew well, one she herself had worn well before she turned her own life upside down. The second, the red-headed woman Bulma recognised as the assistant who'd been ushering actresses in and out all morning, smiled brightly at the first – presumably an actress – extending her hand to shake. “Thank you, Ms. Hasky. We'll be in touch shortly.”

The blonde woman smirked, “No, thank _you._ I'll see you around, Piiza. _”_

Bulma and the assistant watched the blonde leave; eyes drawn to the sensual sway of hips as she disappeared down the corridor. When she rounded the corner and the spell was broken, the assistant cleared her throat and looked down at her clipboard. “Number forty-six?”

“That's me!” Bulma said, jumping to her feet. Her heart hammered in her chest. She mentally checked herself out, assessing her skin-tight black jeans and grey knit sweater, before deciding she looked cute even if she wasn't dressed like an extra from an 80's Sci-Fi movie. She could do this, she _would_ do this.

“Alright, this way please!” The assistant said sweetly, ushering Bulma into the casting room.

She was met by three men and a video camera. The assistant handed one of the men – a short, stout fellow with chestnut hair who sat in the middle – a copy of Bulma's headshot, and the other two peered at it from over his shoulder.

Bulma stood proud and tall as they assessed the A4 glossy, her hands planted on her hips and head tilted to the side in a pose she hoped exuded as much confidence as her predecessor. “Hi, my name's Bulma Briefs, and I'm here to audition for the role of Clementine.”

The stout man glanced up at her, eyes raking over her quickly in scrutiny, before landing back on the paper in his hands. “Huh, whenever you're ready Ms. Briefs.”

Bulma took a breath to steady herself, digging deep to harness the power she knew she had buried within her. She tried to shake off the fact that none of the three men were actually looking _at_ her, but tried to reason that she _was_ being recorded and she _was_ the forty-sixth person to audition that day. Of _course_ they'd be tired.

“Hey, I'm talking to you. Don't think you can just walk away and leave me like this. Leave _us_ like this. I...” Bulma paused, in part because the script called for it, but also because -to her horror- the casting directors had gone from browsing her headshot with disinterest, to muttering quietly about their deli options for lunch. They hadn't even seemed to notice she'd stopped talking, and the room suddenly felt suffocatingly small. The anxiety that had plagued her early was rearing its ugly head again, and she tried to squash it before it could consume her. She dug down deep to muster the courage to carry on, clearing her throat before she continued. “I love you but I'm no fool. That love only extends so far, and if you leave now you can't ever come back. Not into my heart.”

The casting directors were still talking amongst themselves, and Bulma could feel the hysteria rising within her, making her bones ache and blood run cold. She was _Bulma Briefs._ Not so long ago the name alone would have demanded respect, and she'd be the focus of the room. No one would _dare_ ignore _that_ Bulma to debate over the merits of tuna-salad over beef and mustard in terms of sandwich fillers. But her name didn't carry any stock here, and she'd wanted it that way. Wanted to make a new name for herself.

That didn't make the humiliation any easier to swallow.

“You walk away now and we're done. It's over, I..” The words shrivelled up and died in Bulma's throat when one of the casting directors – a blond, fairly attractive man only a little older than she was – pulled out his phone and put it to his ear. When the other line picked up he began to bark his order down the phone with demands for special sides. Despite all her best attempts Bulma's confidence took a nosedive, and a stray, lonely tear dripped from the corner of one eye. Shaking herself, she tried to pass it off as merely acting. “I can't keep fighting you like this.”

They weren't even pretending to pay attention to her anymore. Bulma tried to speak, to continue her monologue and regain a semblance of control, but her voice cracked, a strangled noise garbled and pained breaking free from her throat, and _that's_ when they finally looked up at her. The stout man in the centre of the table didn't even try to hide the way her headshot was tossed to the slush pile, and when he smiled at her it was nothing but perfectly practiced plastic.

“Thank you Ms. Briefs, I think we've seen enough. Don't call us, we'll call you.”

The assistant ushered Bulma out of the room with a less than sympathetic smile, scratching Bulma's name off of the list on her clipboard so swiftly and permanently that it felt like a personal attack. Behind the door rose muffled voices of the men who'd just ordered and carried out the very public execution of her dignity, laughing and talk amongst themselves as if Bulma had never even existed. The eyes of the other girls lining the corridor burned holes into her skin, but Bulma kept her chin raised high as she strode down the corridor. Her cheeks felt hot with shame and her eyes were stinging but she didn't want to give any of them the satisfaction of watching her break.

Bulma barely made it through the elevator door, her jellified legs threatening to buckle and give way with every step she took, before she broke down and wept.

\--------

Loathe as he was to admit it, Bulma wasn't a terrible roommate. She was by no means perfect; perfect would entail leaving him the hell alone when he grouched at her to fuck off, and not taking that as an invitation to intrude in his personal space anyway and chatter inanely. But she did the dishes, and cooked food for him when he was too tired to make his own, and brought him home a thermos of coffee after every shift, so she wasn't _that_ bad.

And she was pretty.

A pretty girl who had sung his praises and gazed at him so sweetly he was sure she'd gotten him confused with someone else because _no one_ had ever looked at him like that before.

_Fuck._

Looking her in the eye for the first few days after he'd moved in had been impossible. He felt acutely embarrassed that he'd gone out of his way to humble himself before her, and the fact that she'd been so grateful frazzled his nerves. He'd been scared that she might keep looking at him in that fond, wonderstruck way so had kept his distance and spent the first few days sulking in his new, horrifically pink, room like a stroppy teenager. When he'd finally tried interacting with her, settling down with a beer to gruffly ask her how her day went and saw that her irises were merely a winsome shad of blue, he wasn't sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed. All he knew is she had some kind of hold on him, able to flare or cool his anger at her whim as if she had him under some sort of spell.

She was unlike any woman Vegeta had ever met, and he found himself thinking that a _lot_ lately.

She wore poor surprisingly well. When his little internet search had dug up the fact she was the daughter of the world's most prolific and influential inventor, and she herself was responsible for several waves of revolutionary tech, he'd assumed that she'd be kicking and screaming her way through poverty. But two decades of want-for-nothing entitlement were masked behind carefully crafted indifference and acceptance and had he not known better he'd have simply assumed she was just as shit-out-of-luck as he had always been. Bulma enjoyed cheap cup noodles, appreciated the stale, slightly damp cookies at the end of the packet, and didn't complain (much) about their inability to afford brand named foods. Nothing she did was indicative of her aristocratic milieu, she was haughty but not overly-spoiled, and she was trying desperately hard to distance herself from her namesake as much as possible. Her tongue was sharper than a razor's edge but coated in a sweetness that made her barbs easier to swallow, and the alter of crappy gossip rags and reality TV shows that she adored heightened, rather than diminished, the overwhelming weight of her intelligence. She was a series of contradictions that piqued his curiosity and had him breaking his own stringent rules on acceptable roommate etiquette (which usually involved keeping the hell out of each other's way). He wanted to know more about her, wanted to understand the way her brain ticked, but he couldn't formulate the words to just go ahead and _ask_ her. In an odd way she intimidated him, and _that_ was definitely a new feeling.

There wasn't a lot in life that surprised Vegeta, but _she_ did.

“Vegeta, there you are,” one of Frieza's underlings – Robery, was it? - interrupted his mental ruminations, and Vegeta frowned. He was supposed to be on a lunch break of sorts, enjoying some time for himself in the break room before he was back to cracking skulls and bloodying his knuckles. As always, life apparently had other plans for him. “Dodoria has been looking for you. He said he wants to speak with you and the other Saiyans in his office.”

“Why?” Vegeta snapped, his jaw clenching. The lithe, blue ghost that had been haunting him all morning dissipated and was replaced by the shadow of a rotund, pink brute. Vegeta's lips instinctively pulled down in disgust, at the disturbance and at the mention of Dodoria's name. “I'm on my fucking break, what the hell does he want?”

Robery visibly flinched, raising his hands defensively as he took a step back. Clearly he was smart enough to want to avoid Vegeta's wrath. “I'm sorry, Vegeta...uh, so-sorry, _Prince_ , I don't know. H-he di-didn't say. I'm just the messenger.”

“Stop trying to kiss my ass, it won't do you any favours,” Vegeta said, flashing the man a frustrated look. “Nappa and Raditz?'

“Already with Dodoria, sir.”

“Whatever. You've said your bit, now get out of here,” Vegeta shooed the man away with the regal wave of his hand, like a king dismissing a servant. Robery wavered for half a second, his mouth falling open as if he had more to add, before he ostensibly decided against it and his jaw snapped shut. Offering Vegeta an awkward half-bow Robery retreated, scurrying away down the corridor like a fleeing rat.

Begrudgingly Vegeta rose from his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as he reluctantly blew a final kiss goodbye to his one break of the working day, and dragged himself towards Dodoria's office. As much as he loathed Zarbon and he penchant for flamboyant emotional torture, he'd rather deal with him over that over-stuffed fool any day. At least Zarbon carried himself with modicum of decorum, priding himself on his appearance – both physical and otherwise – and handling himself and his affairs with dignity. As much as Vegeta abhorred Zarbon he at least held a slither of respect for him. Dodoria, on the other hand, was little more than a revolting elephantine slob lacking in honour and any sort of purpose. Dealing with Dodoria was like dealing with an over-inflated balloon stuffed with sour milk and brought up far too many unpleasant memories.

Vegeta knocked the door once before pushing on the handle, not bothering to wait for a response not particularly caring about the pleasantries. The odour of the room hit him like a wall, a fetid amalgamation of stale sweat, decaying food and cheap cigar smoke, and Vegeta struggled to contain his nausea. Bile rose in the back of his throat, burning and itching for an escape, but he swallowed it down, not willing to give such a disgusting creature the satisfaction. Dodoria was reclining behind his desk, his enormous bulk poured into a tacky pink and purple tracksuit at least two sizes too small, a shit-eating grin plastered smugly across his face. Nappa and Raditz were already seated on a plush leather couch, the only thing of real value in the entire room, looking painfully uncomfortable and shifting in place. He scanned their faces quickly for some sort of answer, for a reason they'd been dragged into the office of _Dodoria_ of all people, but found nothing. They were just as clueless as he was, if not more so.

“The hell do you want?” Vegeta asked finally, pinching the bridge his nose in part to relieve the building tension headache, but also to shield himself from the offensive smell. “You've obviously gathered us here for a reason, so just get on with it.”

Dodoria chuckled, the fat around his throat wobbling sickeningly with the movement. “Now, now. Is that any way to speak to your boss, Prince?”

“I don't work for you, I work for Frieza. Hurry it up already, I'm rapidly losing my patience.”

“You're in no position to talk back, Breigh,” Dodoria leant forward, resting his elbows on the desk and cracking his knuckles together. Vegeta tapped his boots – shiny white Dr Martens - against the floor, imploring Dodoria once again to get a move on. “Your little off-script scrap with the Usagi sparked some shit that took Cui and Nabana several days to smooth over. Luckily for you our business arrangements with M.C and Co. will not be soiled by this little... disagreement.”

 _That's_ what this was about? Vegeta scoffed, looking over his shoulder at his men with incredulous frustration. Raditz shrugged, looking equally annoyed, but Nappa only shifted in place again, looking as though he wished the ground would swallow him up. Vegeta returned his gaze to Dodoria, once again hideously repulsed by the man who had played a large role in his tortured childhood and who resembled a gelatinous, panting blob. He wanted to gut the beast, to watch him bleed out and fade away into nothing. He'd definitely kill him one day. Before or after Frieza, he hadn't decided yet, but Dodoria would definitely be dead by his hand. And he'd fucking _savour_ it too. “That was weeks ago, why am I being summoned for it now?”

“I believe Lord Frieza has been thinking up a way of suitably punishing you while reparations were being made. You did, after all, land one of their key players in the hospital and incapcitated for quite some time.”

“As _I_ told _Lord Frieza_ that fucking creep was trying to force himself on a woman. Besides, we were on neutral ground. It's not like I tracked him down and attacked him for no damn reason in Usagi territory.”

“Exactly. _Neutral_. Do you know the meaning of that, monkey? The Colds, and the Frieza Force in particular, have a fucking reputation to uphold. That means starting no shit in neutral spaces unless the boss wants to prove a point. _That_ wasn't proving a point.”

“So what, you'd just let that _rabbit_ rape her?” Raditz snarled, now on his feet and at Vegeta's side, his hands balled into fists. Nappa was murmuring something to him in a low voice but Raditz wasn't paying him any attention. His eyes raged with the same intense fire that engulfed Vegeta's insides. “I don't give a shit if it wasn't Cold space, Vegeta wasn't doing it as a Cold. It was his day off, on his own time. He did it to stop that piece of fucking shit doing whatever he wanted to someone who couldn't defend herself.”

Dodoria's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and his shoulders tensed. “I don't give a shit what happens to her or anyone else, it isn't my business. Just like it isn't yours. The whole Usagi clan could have gone to town on her for all I care.”

“You bastard,” Raditz hissed, taking a step towards Dodoria. Vegeta placed a firm hand on Raditz's chest, imploring him to stay where he was, but made no attempt to still his tongue. He only had just enough self-control to stop himself and his men from launching themselves at the fat pink bastard sat before them, but as far as he was concerned Dodoria deserved everything Raditz spat out at him and more. “I know you've done some fucked up shit in your time, but you really are something else, you know that? You and Limp Dick think you're untouchable because Frieza likes having you around to stroke his _ego,_ but you'd be nothing without him.”

“I wouldn't pay him too much attention, Raditz,” Vegeta said, his voice low. “Dodoria here doesn't realise that there are ways to get a woman into bed other than paying for it or forcing it. He lacks the necessary experience to know that a _real_ man doesn't need to defile a woman to achieve an orgasm. After all, that would require a woman actually wanting him, and we all know that's never happened.”

“ENOUGH,” Dodoria yelled, the flat of his palm colliding with his desk. “Apparently you Saiyans are all as thick as each other, so let me put this in a way you'll understand. You're not vigilantes. You belong to us, and that means you can't even take a piss without Lord Frieza's say-so. You're lucky that you're one of Frieza's favourite pets, because that little stunt really pissed him off. Next time he wont be so lenient, and if you fuck up again _I'll_ be the one punishing you.”

“Oh, I'd like to see you try,” Vegeta growled, his jaw working in frustration. Nappa was pleading with him to calm down, but like Raditz he chose to ignore it. “I'm not a little kid anymore Dodoria, people are scared of me for a reason and I'm not sure you'd like to see what I'm capable of.”

“Well then, it seems that some people have short memories,” Dodoria said, his skin reddening further as his anger built.

“Evidently. Because _I_ remember beating Cui so badly he was unconscious for four days. What was it? Three broken ribs, a fracture to the skull and a broken ankle. I also remember the look on yours and Zarbon's faces; you were close to pissing yourselves when you realised you no longer had the advantage of size and strength. I was only thirteen years old then, imagine what I'm able to do now.”

Vegeta's little speech seemed to have a remarkable effect on Raditz, he was bouncing his weight between the balls of his feet as though gearing up for a brawl. His biceps were curling and uncurling, and his wild mane of haired seemed to take on a life of its own. He looked like a hound who'd just spotted a rabbit and was awaiting orders from his master to track it down. He painted a tempting picture of insubordination and revolution, an uprising waiting for instigation.

The blob actually looked worried, a glob of spit hugging the corner of his mouth, his eyes wide. “Keep kidding yourself, Prince. You ain't shit. You'll never be shit. I suggest you tell your little guard dog to step down. Before I'm forced to teach you a lesson on manners.”

Vegeta was pretty sure he could take on Dodoria. Though he was still a formidable foe he'd grown fat and lazy with complacency and it was obvious to everyone in the 'business' that Zarbon had surpassed him in terms of the favouritism and usefulness. He stayed by Frieza's side because he had _some_ uses, and his name carried weight that was – at times – worth more than his physical presence. Vegeta, on the other hand, dedicated his life to staying strong enough to survive anything thrown his way. In his own twisted way Frieza actually _respected_ him for his physical prowess, which is why he'd made such a name for himself as 'The Prince'. Yeah, he was pretty sure he could handle Dodoria, even without Raditz's help. But things wouldn't be that simple. Because fighting Dodoria now would spark a chain reaction he definitely wasn't prepared for. He could take down the man in front of him, maybe a few of the lower grunts who would undoubtedly run in the lend their assistance, but then what? The Colds didn't exactly take kindly to in-fighting. Unless _they_ organised it, of course. Vegeta would likely end up dead, Raditz and Nappa too. He knew it, and so did Dodoria. Which would explain the growing smile cracking his fat face in two.

The smug bastard.

_You'll never get one over on me, kid. You are nothing. You will always be nothing._

Clenching his jaw so hard it was a miracle his teeth hadn't shattered in their roots, Vegeta motioned at Raditz to stand down. He said nothing but thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans to avoid slamming them into Dodoria's gut and damning them all.

Pleased with the win, Dodoria reclined in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “As punishment for your little indiscretion the three of you will be on grunt duty for the next week, reporting exclusively to _me_. In the meantime Abo and Kado will be taking over your regular duties.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” Vegeta popped his jaw, trying hard to keep his anger in check. With the slightest tilt of his head towards his companions, he continued. “The hell did they do?”

“You're in charge of the Saiyans, you lead by example. As such Lord Frieza thought it would be fitting if you demonstrated to your men the repercussions of acting out without command. This way you're much less likely to make the same mistake again. Got it?” Dodoria was eating up Vegeta's reaction with glee, wetting his over-plump lips with the flicker of his tongue.

“Raditz, Nappa, we're leaving,” Vegeta said simply, turning on his heel towards the door. He had to remove himself from the vicinity straight away to prevent his anger boiling over the edge and lashing out at his new, albeit temporary, boss. He could hear Dodoria laughing but he tried to drown it out by concentrating on the pounding of his veins. His men followed him out dumbly, but the tension rippling off of their skin was palpable and spoke more than words could say.

They silently trailed him to his own office, through the so-called Break Room (which, in reality, was little more than a few mismatched broken tables and chairs with a temperamental coffee machine and a mini fridge) and passed the various lackeys who littered the halls of Frieza's palace. Humiliation and indignation warred for dominance within him, but Vegeta let none of the battle show. He kept his shoulders stiff and back erect, eye promising death to all those foolish enough to meet his gaze. When the three of them reached the little room that was, though scarcely used, meant to be theirs Vegeta ushered them in, expression thunderous.

“The fuck do you two think you're doing?” Nappa hissed the moment the door closed behind them. For someone who stayed woefully silent in the other room he seemed to have a lot to say now. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“Frieza wouldn't do shit to Vegeta,” Raditz said with a shrug. “He's the best at what he does, it's why _we're_ even a thing in the first place. Dodoria's just full of hot air. We shoulda let them slug it out. Teach that fat bastard a lesson. Right 'Getes?”

“You kids are fucking delusional.” Nappa threw his arms up, shaking his head from side to side.“You two think you're hot shit because you're young and strong? Well you ain't anything. I've been in this business a long fuckin' time. Before you was even born. You know how many men I've seen come and go 'cause they couldn't keep their goddamned mouths shut? Fuckin' _hundreds._ You wanna start shit with one of Frieza's top dogs? Be my guest. But you ain't draggin' my sorry ass into your mess to get killed.”

Vegeta's gaze snapped to the older man, brows knitting together and arms crossing against his chest, his fingers curling tightly around his biceps. “You weren't there. That scumbag was crawling over her like a damn beast in heat. The rabbit deserved everything he got and I won't apologise to anyone for doing what I did.”

“You know I'm with Vegeta on this one, old man.” Raditz added. “I know we're not exactly patron saints or anything but Christ, you can't just sit back and watch that shit happen without intervening.”

“Cut the crap, we all know you two have personal connections to the girl. Would you be here if you didn't? If it was just some broad and not someone you know would you have done the same? You're not a goddamn hero because you were tryin' to cosy up and get some pussy.”

Vegeta liked to think he would do the right thing. He'd done some fucking awful things in his life time, most he wasn't particularly proud of but some he'd definitely enjoyed. But rape? That was definitely on his firm no list, reprehensible in every way. It was a spineless crime, inexcusable and unforgivable in every way with absolutely zero justification. Still, something dark and evil niggling in the back of his mind told him that he wouldn't have been so keen to throw himself at a rival gang member had she just been any girl, and the fact that it was Bulma played a large part in his recent heroics.

Not that _Nappa_ needed to know any of that.

“Do I need to pull rank and remind you of your station? _I'm_ in charge of _you,_ ” Vegeta bit out. His anger was misdirected, forged to fight Dodoria but unable to achieve appropriate release, so it surged out in other ways. Nappa just happened to be the unfortunate bastard caught in the firing line. His remarks about Bulma certainly hadn't done him any favours, and if the way Raditz was clutching it his forearms, knuckles white from the strain, was anything to go by Vegeta wasn't alone in his anger. The implication that he'd only ran to her aid to get her into bed, the implication that he wanted to bed her _at all,_ did _not_ sit well with Vegeta. Which made the very real threat formulating on the tip of his tongue even easier to breathe to life. “Maybe if you'd grown a damn backbone all those years ago that wouldn't be the case, but such is life. You're expendable, worthless trash, and I am not. So I sincerely suggest shut the fuck up before I do something we'll both regret.”

Nappa recoiled as if he'd just been struck, his expression one of undisguised disgust and betrayal. “The fuck is your problem? I'm trying to look out for you. Just like the way I've looked after you since you were a little kid.”

“That is solely down to your own stupidity. No one asked you to care for me. My father clearly had no concerns, Frieza held no such affections for me, and I definitely didn't ask you to help me.”

“You're right, they didn't. But like you and the girl I couldn't just stand by and watch a kid get used up and tossed around like a chew toy.”

“How very _noble._ Though perhaps you should have followed your own advice. Maybe then you'd have earned your way out. But you chose to remain a pathetic, middle-aged man playing gangster for a pittance,” Vegeta sneered. His insides were white hot, blinding him and overriding the voice in his head that urged him to just stop and regain a speck of control. “Instead you're being led by the child you once baby-sat with no hope for the future. You've outgrown your uses, Nappa. I'd suggest retirement but we both know you'd have to have earned that luxury.”

Raditz visibly baulked at the verbal assault, uncomfortably backing himself into the furthest corner of the office to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Nappa, on the other hand took a step towards Vegeta, expression thunderous. “You're a thankless little cunt, ya know that?”

“Is that so? What exactly is there to thank you for?” Despite the enormous difference in size Vegeta definitely had the advantage of speed, strength and skill, and when he straightened up by a fraction both Nappa and Raditz instinctively leaned away from him. Even so, Nappa's tirade continued.

“I dunno, how 'bout bringin' you back from the brink of death more times than I can remember.”

“I'm not thanking you for something I never asked for nor wanted.”

_It's alright, squirt. Let me take a look at ya. They got you good, huh? Name's Nappa, I was a pal of your old man. I'm gonna look out for ya from now on, okay?_

Nappa scoffed, squaring his shoulders and mimicking Vegeta's stance. “So what, would ya rather it if I'da just let you die all those years ago?”

_Yes._

Vegeta scowled and said nothing, but the truth behind his silence hung heavily in the air. Raditz looked away in a vain attempt to disguise the pity in his eyes, but Nappa made no such move. He just stood there, mouth agape, sunken eyes brimming with commiseration that contrasted sharply with his thuggish features. He suddenly looked old and worn, the wrinkles surrounding his eyes more prominent, the flecks of grey in his moustache more prominent than he could ever remember them being. He'd only been a few years older than Vegeta was now when they'd met, a bumbling giant and a lost, broken kid thrown together because of someone else's selfish decisions. In all that time he'd never looked so old, so tired. So full of regret. He'd tried his damnedest to keep Vegeta alive, using what little money he had to buy medicine or food. Vegeta had stopped being grateful for the help sixteen months in, and Nappa had habitually moaned at him about being an unappreciative little prick ever since.

For the first time in nearly two decades the older man was confronted with the truth behind the actions of a sullen child, and the look on his face was too much for Vegeta to bear.

“Vegeta, I...” Nappa croaked, a giant paw outstretched.

Vegeta jerked out of reach, his skin scorching under the scrutiny. He hadn't intended for things to go this way, hadn't planned on making himself so vulnerable in the presence of anyone, let alone the two fuckwits in front of him. “If you know what's good for you you'll shut it.”

Nappa's maw hung open, slack and gormless, looking every bit the idiot Vegeta knew him to be. Seizing the opportunity, Vegeta made for the exit, purposefully slamming into Nappa with his shoulder with as much force as he could muster.

He ignored the pointed whispers and snickers as he marched towards the front door, ignored the way Dodoria's office drew him in as though he were reluctantly trapped in its orbit, ignored it all as he pursued his singular goal.

Getting the fuck out of there.

When he finally made his way to the door the rush of crisp, cool air enveloped Vegeta like a pining lover, smothering him with an encapsulating caress that kissed every inch of him.

He hated them. He hated them fucking all. He hated his father for leaving him to rot in this shit show. He hated Nappa for having the audacity to drag him up without his consent and then demand thanks. He hated Dodoria for simply being Dodoria, Zarbon too. He hated Frieza for finding new and increasingly demeaning ways to ruin his life. He hated the Usagi bastard for generating this new discomfort, and he hated Bulma for being the root cause of all of his recent humiliations.

No, no he didn't.

Not her, at least. He tried to hate her, for a split second, but then he was caught up in the memory of warm waters off the coast of tropical shores; a shimmering cocktail of various hues of blue that invited him to dive right in and bask in the saccharine affability of her gaze. The way she'd curl up on the sofa next to him, handing him a plate of food or a pot of instant noodles before tucking into her own, content to share her time and space with a man most would deem a monster.

As much as he tried, as little as he knew her, he just couldn't bring himself to hate Bulma.

Vegeta roared and kicked out at the dumpster, delighting when the metal dented underfoot. He struck it again, and again, bringing his fists into the fray until the dumpster was mangled and deformed and his skin was a bloody mess.

When his laboured breathing forced him to stop, and the anger dripped scarlet from his body and onto the alley floor, he dug his hands into his pockets to root around for his phone.

He tried to tell himself that the disappointment gripping his insides from simply from the whole shit show of a day, and had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the lack of texts from a certain blue-haired roommate.

\--------

The sky was bleeding orange and yellow by the time her bus rattled into view, the last vestiges of daylight beginning their decent over the horizon. Bulma usually enjoyed the quiet rides home from work and auditions, liked to rest her face against the window and watch the world pass her by with the quiet thrum of music in her ear. It relaxed her, made her feel like she inhabited her own private little world. Today it just served as a very real reminder of her shortcomings.

For the first time since she left home Bulma Briefs felt lonely; like the foolish little girl chasing pipe dreams that the tabloids and her parents had painted her out to be. The realisation that she was wrong, that she may not succeed, only served to twist the knife embedded in her gut further. She didn't want to be stuck working at The Lookout for the rest of her life, didn't want to have to borrow off of her friends and she didn't want to have to rely on roommates just to make rent. Most of all, she didn't want to have to admit defeat and go crawling back home, doomed to spend the rest of her life in her father's shadow, running a business she wasn't sure she wanted any part of and certainly didn't set her soul on fire.

She wanted to call her mom. Wanted to curl up with her head on her mother's lap as soft, powdery hands stroked her hair and told her it was all going to be okay. It would take one phone call. One desperate, teary phone call, and she could have it. Despite their differences, despite her need to escape, they were still her parents and they loved her. She needed them now more than ever.

Bulma had spent most of the day wandering around by herself, trying to clear her head. She'd found herself down by the beach, shoes and socks in hand despite the residual chill, toes curled up in the sand. She used to love the beach as a kid, used to waste entire summers rolling around on the seafront with her friends until her sun-bitten skin was seized by a constellation of freckles and mosquito bites, and the sun began to retreat into the horizon earlier and earlier. Even then her excursions to the beach were not limited by the fading fragments of summer.

Chi Chi had once brought her to the beach in the middle of winter, the tide high and the hint of snow in the air, worrying her lower lip constantly the entire ride there. On her usually studious friend's insistence they'd skipped school to make the journey, and that in itself had told Bulma that something was really, _really_ wrong. So when Chi Chi tearily handed her a white plastic stick with two purple lines glaring ominously up at them Bulma wasn't entirely unprepared. In fact she'd already started putting two and two together, and weeks of Chi Chi finding excuses to skip out on P.E, and complaints of feeling perpetually sick suddenly made perfect sense.  
  
“You're pregnant.” It had been a statement, not a question. Even without her extraordinary high level of genius that much had been obvious. A thin white flurry had picked up then, punctuating the mood so perfectly it had almost felt scripted. “Does Goku know?”  
  
“Not yet,” Tears she'd been holding back for God only knows how long had fallen freely then, Chi Chi's shoulders shaking as violently as the frothing waves crashing against the pier. “Oh Bulma, we've only been together a few months and I've already ruined everything.”

“You didn't get pregnant by yourself.” Although an immaculate singular conception had still felt more believable than _Goku_ of all people being able to successfully fecundate and copulate. 

“I know but... I was so caught up in the romance of it all that I stopped being so careful. I just kept thinking 'it won't happen to me' as if that would make a difference. I'm such a fool.”

“How far along are you?”

“About five or six weeks. Not very far along at all.”

Bulma had ran her tongue over her teeth, stopping to click against incisors. “Do you love him?”

“I don't know, maybe?” Chi Chi's shoulders had fallen, making her look painfully dejected and small. “I'm still figuring things out and having fun with it, but I definitely feel _something_ and it has the potential to be love but now...”

“Now you don't know whether it's because you two are meant to be together, or because he's the father of your child,” Bulma had reached out to rub Chi Chi's back, her mittens squeaking against the polyester of her friends thick winter-coat. “You need to tell him. I love you, and I'll support you in any decision you make, but I'm not helping you keep this from Goku. If you don't tell him soon I will. He's my best friend and you can't do this alone.”

“I _know_.”

A turtle heaved itself onto the sandy shore, despite the inappropriate season and the roaring waves. Bulma's eyes had followed it as it struggled to navigate its clunky body inland with a morbid fascination. Why a creature who was so graceful and at home in the ocean would actively choose to beach itself and face an uncertain and uphill battle had been beyond her comprehension. When the creature had managed to drag itself all of fifteen feet, Bulma had returned her focus to her friend. “What are you going to do?”

Chi Chi had sniffed, her dark eyes locked on the rolling tide. “I don't know. I don't know what I can do. I've only _just_ turned seventeen, I can't look after a _baby._ Oh God, my dad's gonna kill me. _”_

The bus lurched to a stop, causing Bulma to fall through six years of memories as she lurched with it back into the present day.

An older man, who reminded her of her father only because her heart was aching for him and the stale smoke that clung to him suggested they were fans of the same brand, clambered on the bus and took a seat across from her. He looked Bulma up and down, wetting his lips with his tongue before huffing. “Cheer up, sweetheart. It might never happen.”

Bulma scowled, narrowing her eyes at the man and at her own intrusive thoughts. “Yeah, that's the problem.”

They hadn't wanted her, which in and of itself was a brand new experience that she'd only recently been forced to face, but more than that they hadn't even given her the opportunity to prove her worth. They'd already made up their minds before she'd even entered the room that they didn't want her, that much was evident, but they'd subjected to the humiliation of it all anyway. And for what? Shits and giggles? Did they take pleasure in mentally torturing the latest up-and-coming actress?

Maybe they had already researched Bulma. After all, as her grumpy new roommate had already demonstrated that it wasn't exactly hard to uncover her true identity. She never went out of her way to disguise who she really was, never went to the effort of crafting a nom-de-plume to hide herself away from her old life and who she used to be. The physical separation had been enough in her eyes, and most people didn't feel the need to do their background research or ask questions. Her name was familiar on their tongues, enough to make them think they'd met her before through a friend-of-a-friend or mutual acquaintance, but foreign enough that it didn't arouse suspicion.

But perhaps the casting agency had looked her up, and Bulma simply intimidated them. The utter failure of an audition wasn't actually her fault, but a case of others being starstruck in the presence of such a prolific and revolutionary young woman.

It was a nice idea, something to help mollify Bulma's shattered ego, but she knew it to be false and to keep up the pretence would only work against her in the long run, and she wouldn't coddle herself into further disappointment.

Instead Bulma considered staying on the bus all the way to West City, throwing herself into her mother's arms and her father's projects and claiming her rightful place in the throne room of the Capsule Corp. empire. Goku and Raditz could help her move her stuff back into her parent's house and Chi Chi could bring Gohan over for afternoon tea in the menagerie. Bulma's genius would undoubtedly win her countless awards and amass her family an even greater wealth, and she'd go down in history within the scientific community.

Vegeta would get to keep the apartment all to himself, or at least find himself a roommate more in keeping with his grumpy personality, and life would return to the way it was a few years ago before her escape.

Vegeta.

She was supposed to be introducing him to Goku and Chi Chi today, with Raditz there as a mutual ally on all sides to help buffer out any awkwardness. She'd actually been looking forward to spending the evening with the whole gang, or, at least, as much of the gang as she thought Vegeta was capable of dealing with right now, until her abysmal display in the audition room had put a dampener on things.

Going back home now felt too much like running away, too much like accepting that she had a losing hand when only half the cards were on the table.

After all, she _was_ Bulma Briefs. Genius, beauty, perfectionist. What would it say about her if she were to just give up because of a few stumbling set backs? She _could_ do this, easy peasy, it was just a case of trying harder.

And besides, how else was her socially inept roommate meant to make new friends if she wasn't around to help him?

So when the bus rattled to a standstill at the stop nearest to Bulma's apartment she reluctantly gathered her things and her thoughts and tossed aside any thoughts of returning to Capsule Corp. At least for the duration of the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm proud to announce that City of Stars won second place in The Prince and The Heiresses 2017 Awards 'Best of the Undiscovered' category.  
> To those who nominated and voted for me, thank you from the bottom of my heart. This story was less than a week old when I received the nomination, and only a month old when voting closed so I honestly never expected anything, especially given the stiff competition (and the fact that I was up against some of my favourite fics). I really wish I could have got this chapter out before voting closed as a sort of thank you, but unfortunately life got in the way. A family member was rushed to hospital and was touch-and-go for a while, so I was caring for them, and then my fiancé got into an extremely serious car accident that totalled our car and left him injured. As well as this I've been busy with my own health issues and PhD applications, so I've had almost no time for myself.
> 
> I promise I'll try and post more regularly as soon as things settle down!
> 
> Additionally, the original draft of this chapter was well over 25k words, so I had to go about cohesively splitting it up into segments that made far more sense. So, this is essentially 'part one'. The other parts will likely be posted in the next week or so.
> 
> To address a reviewer (who said they thought Vegeta was OOC) I'm really sorry you feel that way. To me, in actual DBZ canon, I always thought that Vegeta was the one to 'fall' for Bulma first, which is part of the reason he pushes against her so much. He doesn't deal well with any emotions, let alone positive ones, and I think admitting that he cared about her would wound his pride far too much. I tried to bring that head canon into this story, so I apologise if it conflicts with your own. That being said, this is an AU, so there are creative liberties being taken.


	4. Pride and (Pizza) Prejudice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta is forced into an uncomfortable situation, and Bulma ponders the nature of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual this fic is completely un-beta'd. Please don't hesitate to hit me up with any mistakes!

* * *

“ _Somewhere there's a place where I will find who I'm gonna be, a somewhere that's just waiting to be found”_

 _-_ Mia Dolan, La La Land (2016)

\--------

Vegeta and Raditz had narrowly beat Bulma home, Raditz already lounging on the sofa with a beer in hand like he owned the damn place while Vegeta kept to himself at the little breakfast table, sulking. Finding out that Raditz had his own key to his apartment had been a very rude awakening, one he was ill-prepared to deal with. It was bad enough that they spent so much time together as it was, undeniably frustrating (if not a little convenient, at least at first) that they shared a mutual acquaintance in the form of his new roommate, but discovering that he had access to Vegeta's _home –_ the _one_ place Vegeta had as a refuge from organised crime and sadistic mob bosses - as and when he pleased was the cherry on top of an undeniably shit day, and further proof that he was just a pawn in some sadistic God's game.

Why stop there? Why not give Nappa a key too? Or Zarbon, or Cui or Dodoria or Guldo? Fuck it, why not just have a brand new set made especially for Frieza? They could have a fucking sleepover in his goddamn living room gossiping about their secret crushes and how many people The Colds offed that week. They'd braid Zarbon's hair and play spin the bottle, and maybe, if Vegeta was lucky, someone would put a 4mm right between his goddamn eyes. It would be hi-fucking-larious, and the perfect addition to his shit-show of an existence.

Damn that fucking bitch. Who in their right mind wilfully gave out brass access to their home like they were handing out pieces of gum? Bulma Briefs, apparently.

He'd planned on cursing Bulma out about it the moment she came home, demanding she rescind her open invitation and have all the keys that didn't belong to either of the residents of their apartment returned immediately. But then he heard her boots in the hallway, and the jingle of her keys in her hand, and he forgot about his anger. He'd deal with it later, away from prying eyes and sensitive ears. All he wanted to do was forget about his day with his roommate-not-friend with a couple of beers and a shit movie.

Except he couldn't. Because Bulma's friends were coming over.

_Fuck._

“Hey boys!”

Bulma flashed a brilliant smile in Vegeta's direction as she breezed in, and he couldn't help but offer her a small upturn of his own lips and a nod of his head in response. Then she was gone, her attention refocused and fixated on the shaggy beast splayed across their couch. Bulma's hand was lost in Raditz's ridiculous mane, scratching his scalp as though her were a well-trained mutt while he leant up into the touch.

“Hey beautiful,” Raditz murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Vegeta could have gagged, would have if not for the fact that watching his co-worker, a giant who cracked skulls and ran drugs for a living, melt into a quivering puddle at the hands of a _girl_ aroused a semblance of humour from deep within his coal black soul. It was fucking embarrassing. And the perfect leverage. He was going to make Raditz _suffer_ for this for months, milk it for all it was worth. Suddenly Vegeta felt a little better. “Good day?”

Vegeta didn't miss the way Bulma winced, her body stiffening, but she went back to petting Raditz's hair almost immediately. “You know how auditions are, I spent the morning trapped in a stuffy room and the afternoon window shopping. How was work?”

Raditz grimaced, and for a soul shattering second Vegeta was _sure_ he was about to spill his fucking guts out right there and then. He tried to work out whether he'd be able to lunge over to the bastard and silence him before he had a chance to ruin _everything,_ but he was already opening his mouth and letting words roll over his tongue before Vegeta could even move. “Work was work.”

Relief washed over Vegeta, and he let out a breath that he hadn't been fully aware of holding. And that was that.

They talked about nothing as they waited for Bulma's guests. Well, Raditz and Bulma talked about nonsense he didn't have the appropriate knowledge to comment upon, not that he would even if he could, while Vegeta spectated. Occasionally he'd grunt a response, but he offered little of substance, so it was left to stew quietly about his miserable day and apparent inability to function like a normal, full fledged human being.  
Vegeta made small talk at work, it made the time pass quicker between blooding his knuckles and crawling his way to his car, but it wasn't exactly the kind of stuff that most people discussed. It was more along the lines of ' _it's really hot for September. By the way, did you hear about Jim? Got himself shanked over a teener of coke. A fucking_ _ **teener**_ _. What a dick. I never liked him anyway.' 'Yeah, fuck him. Moron.' 'Anyway, did I show you that new knife I bought? Slices through muscle like a goddamn_ _ **dream**_.'

He could still leave. Gather his things, get the fuck out of there, and just keep walking, he'd never have to see Bulma again, and he'd never have to subject himself to the torture that was sitting through idle gossip for the sake of a woman he barely knew. He'd just about worked up the nerve to throw himself up and out of the door with only a raised finger and a string of obscenities to mark his exit, when there was a faint knock followed by the rattling of keys in the lock.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“They're here!” Bulma _squealed,_ rushing to the door as if it was the gateway to a magical new realm. She flung the door open, the hinges protesting loudly, revealing three instantly recognisable figures crowded in the hallway.

Huh, so _he_ was Raditz's brother.

The dark haired man from the photos in Bulma's room stood in the middle, wearing a garish orange hoody that was frankly offensive to anyone with eyes, his hair just as unruly in person as it was in pictures.

“Goku!”

He'd barely made it through the doorway when Bulma launched herself at the man with a ferocity Vegeta never seen in her before, burying her head in his chest and squeezing him tightly as if her life depended on it. The man returned the gesture, wrapping two muscular arms about her middle and grinning idiotically, lifting Bulma slightly off of the ground as he engulfed her in a bear hug.

The man chuckled, the sound muffled “Hey Bulma, what's the big deal? You're huggin' me like I just came back from the dead or somethin'.”

“Shut up, I just missed you. I'm not used to going so long without seeing you. I was starting to forget what you looked like.”

The dark haired woman from the photographs – presumably the guys wife or girlfriend, or at the very least baby-mama - said nothing, and her face betrayed no signs of ill will or jealousy. She was too busy removing an ugly green coat from a very small person, one who happened to resemble the toddler in Bulma's photograph, making polite, if not strained, conversation with Raditz in the process.

Which left Vegeta staring dumbly at the nineties-sitcom that was unfolding in his living room

When the man finally released Bulma she wiped the corner of her eyes with the back of her hands, her cheeks flushed prettily. She turned to kiss the other woman on the cheek, enveloping her in a hug that was far less enthusiastic than its predecessor, but bore no signs of forced friendliness or thinly-veiled-distaste. Then Bulma's attention turned to the child at her feet, her expression softening.

“Hey buddy!” Bulma crouched down in front of the kid, ruffling his hair. “You're getting so big!”

“Uhuh, I'm this many now!” The kid held up his palm, all five fingers splayed and wiggling.

“Wow! No way! Pretty soon you're going to be bigger than me.”

“Yup!” The child turned and looked at Vegeta, his head cocking to the side. “Who's that mister?”

“That's Vegeta,” Bulma rose to her feet and took the boy by the shoulders, nudging him forward. “He's my new friend and he's friends with your uncle Raditz too. Why don't you come say hello?”

Vegeta paled, panic stricken. He didn't like kids, they made him inherently uncomfortable. They reminded him too much of a past he'd rather forget if given the opportunity, and they usually looked at him as if he were some kind of monster ready to terrorise them.

Although, to be fair, that's exactly what he was.

The child narrowed his eyes at Vegeta and Vegeta narrowed his right back. The little brat held his gaze for an admirably long time, oozing misplaced confidence, before turning back to his mother. “I don't like him. He has weird hair.”

Bulma and Raditz stifled laughs, Bulma's hand clamping over her mouth while Radtiz simply turned the other way to disguise his growing grin. The dark haired woman's face twisted in horror, running to her offspring and snatching him away. “Gohan! What have we told you?”

“If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all?”

“Precisely, young man,” the boy's mother tugged the child towards the living room, mortification written all over her face, trying desperately hard not to meet Vegeta's cold, hard gaze. The boy's father, however, seemed unperturbed by his child's comments, still grinning like a goddamn clown.

“Sorry about that, you know how kids can get,” No, Vegeta didn't, but he made no effort to acknowledge that fact. Instead he just crossed his arms tighter over his chest, his fingers drumming a steady beat on his left bicep. Unphased by Vegeta's hostility, the man pressed on. “ I'm Raditz's brother and Bulma's oldest friend! I've, uh, heard a lot about you.”

“So _you're_ Kakarot?” Vegeta looked the other man up and down, unimpressed by the offering. He should have really put two and two together the moment he laid eyes on the photograph; both oafish and dopey looking, looking like a pair of poorly trained Labradors wagging their tales after pissing on the carpet.

“Well that's a bit of a mouthful, so my friends call me 'Goku'. Childhood nickname, don't ask.”

“I wasn't planning on it. _Kakarot_.”

“Okay then...” Goku gestured at the woman and the child behind him, his idiotic smile still plastered across his face. “This is my wife Chi Chi and my son Gohan.”

“...”

“You're in pretty good shape, huh? Me and my buddy Tien teach marital arts at this little dojo down town. You should swing by and watch. Maybe even take one or both of us on. Could be fun.”

“As if I'd need or want to fight amateurs who think playing for sport is the same as actual combat.”

“I don't doubt ya ability. Bulma told us what ya did for her at The Lookout and I was actually kinda excited to see your moves for myself. And obviously I was pretty happy that you were there to look after our girl.”

“She did?” Vegeta glared at his roommate, and a faint rush of blood pinked Bulma's cheeks, but she lifted her head in defiance. That goddamn _bitch._

“Yup! Said that guy's arm broke like a twig. So I figured you'd make a pretty interesting opponent. Not many people can go toe-to-toe with me. I need a challenge. If ya don't think you can handle it that's cool too!”

Vegeta grunted, his face twisting in disgust. Of _course_ he could handle Goku. He'd been forced to fight since he was a kid, only a little older than child stood right in front of him. He didn't have the luxury of strict rules and well-rehersed choreography to protect himself. When he fought it was always a matter of life or death. “Don't flatter yourself, it's not because I have concerns I won't be able to beat you, it's because I only like a _real_ challenge.”

“That's the spirit!”

The vein on Vegeta's forehead throbbed, and he could _feel_ his blood-pressure skyrocketing. The man was an idiot, clearly dropped on his head one too many times as an infant if the dopey grin on his face was anything to go by. How he managed to not only bag himself an attractive woman _and_ get her pregnant was beyond Vegeta's comprehension, because he seemed incapable of picking up on the fact that Vegeta wasn't fucking interested in fighting him in his bullshit dojo.

Goku opened his mouth to say something else, and Vegeta mentally apologised to Bulma that he was about to break his no-kill rule and ruin the linoleum finish, when _mercifully_ the clown's wife – Chi Chi, was it? - cut her husband off before he could sign his own death certificate.

“Oh, Bulma, I forgot to ask – how did your audition go?”

Right, the audition. While he hadn't necessarily forgotten about it, his confrontation with Dodoria and Nappa had pushed it to the back of his mind, and following up on it had completely slipped his mind. Vegeta's eyes flickered to Bulma, and he didn't miss the way her face fell – only for a moment - nor the way her right arm pinched the flesh of her left wrist.

“It went well, I think. I guess we'll just have to wait and see,” Bulma said, smiling tightly. Her eyes met Vegeta's for a split second and he _swore_ he could see something resembling fear, but it was gone before he had chance to analyse it further. “So, what are we going to do about food?”

“Pizza!” The idiot was talking again, practically salivating with excitement. Somewhere behind him Raditz also grunted in approval.

Bulma sighed, throwing her hands up. “Pizza? _Again?_ ”

“What? Pizza's great!” Goku replied, scratching at the back of his head like a damn chimpanzee picking at flees. “It's got all the important food groups in it, it tastes delicious, and Chi Chi _never_ lets us have pizza at home.”

“Fine, sure. Same as usual?” Goku nodded in assent and Raditz mumbled something about extra-cheese, but it seemed that their orders were already well rehearsed. “And you, Vegeta? Any preference?”

Vegeta shrugged, digging his hands into his pockets. While pizza wouldn't have been his first choice – far too fattening with too little of a payoff – food was food, and his lack of substantial lunch break meant he'd been teetering on the verge of starvation all day. “Anything with lots of meat. I don't care about the specifics.”

Bulma rolled her eyes and mumbled something containing the word 'jackass' under her breath, retreating to the breakfast table with the other female and a worn-out pizza menu. Raditz played around with the TV, plugging and unplugging various wires in an attempt to hook up whatever gaming _thing_ they'd all apparently decided they were going to play tonight. His overfamiliarity with the contents of Vegeta's apartment aroused a territorial irritability in Vegeta that he tried to tell himself was due to the fact that Raditz had been dropping into the place for a long time before Vegeta took up residence, but it did little to soothe his growing vexation.

The kid was watching his uncle intently, settling himself on the floor and asking questions that Raditz would answer as minimally as possible, either too engrossed with his mission to put any real effort into the conversation, or simply not interested in the brat enough to want to try. Vegeta could hear Bulma and the other woman discussing pizza toppings and the size of the order behind him, tossing suggestions at one another regarding gargantuan appetites and some fad-diet the brunette was currently experimenting with.

Which left Vegeta alone with Raditz's brother.

Who was currently staring at him as though they were about the throw down.

Vegeta puffed up instinctively, and though he was still a couple of inches short of eye level, he was glad that Goku hadn't inherited his brother's ridiculous stature. He didn't have to crane his neck quite so violently to lour at the younger of the two brothers, so Vegeta thanked his non-existent God for small mercies.

Even if it did look like he was seconds away from a brawl.

“Look buddy,” Goku clapped a giant paw on Vegeta's shoulder, and it took _years_ of practiced restraint to refrain from socking him in the face for the _sinful_ gesture of overfamiliarity. “Bulma is my oldest, dearest friend. I love her with all of my heart, and she's like a sister to me. We've been through... a lot together. She's always stuck by side. That's just what makes Bulma, _Bulma_. Here's the thing about Bulma: she may be a genius, but she's also a great person and tries to see the good in other people no matter what. That sometimes means she thinks with this,” Goku tapped his temple with his free hand, before moving to repeat the gesture on his chest. “instead of this. I know what you do for a living, and I don't like it. Raditz kinda gets a pass because he's my brother, but even he knows he's skatin' on thin ice. I want to make sure that Bulma is safe. That she _stays_ safe. I don't want you bringing your _mess_ into her home and putting her in danger. I know what you did for her at The Lookout was great and all, but...”

Goku trailed off, and Vegeta mentally finished the sentence for him. _But you still_ _ **broke the arm of a rival gang member**_ _in front of her without so much as breaking a sweat, which makes you dangerous._

Vegeta narrowed his eyes, glaring up at Goku. “Are you _threatening_ me?”

“Nope! Just pointin' out that it would be an awful shame if Bulma got dragged into your work affairs. I'd do absolutely _anythin'_ to protect my friends and keep 'em out of harms way. _Anythin'._ I remind Raditz of this all the time.”

A lightbulb flickered in Vegeta's mind, but he pushed the creeping realisation aside to better concentrate at the matter at hand. His hands balled up into fists at his side, and his lips upturned in a sneer. “Funny, it sounds like you _are_ threatening me, Kakarot.”

“Of course I'm not. You're Bulma's roomie and my brother's friend. Which makes ya one of us now. I just wanna let you know that it would be an awful shame if you brought your work home with you and something happened to Bulma.”

Who the fuck did this kid think he was? As if Vegeta would ever be so irresponsible as to merge what little privacy he had with Frieza's world? As if he'd be so reckless as to endanger Bulma in the process? That goddamn clown knew that he'd already proven himself to be Bulma's protector, and yet he was talking down to Vegeta like he was a naughty school boy. “I am able to keep my private life and my home life separated. You have no need to be concerned, Kakarot.”

“Well great!” Goku was back to his earlier self, tone light and bubbly, the hand on Vegeta's shoulder retracted and shoved into his pocket “Are ya sure you don't wanna come down and spar with me sometime? I think it could be really fun.”

“Frankly Kakarot, I'd rather be shot in the chest.”

\--------

 

No matter how hard she tried, Bulma just couldn't get into the social spirit.

Her living room was a bustle of activity, the carcasses of _seven_ large pizzas piled up in boxes, dotted between beer bottles and a half-empty bottle of wine. Raditz and Goku were shouting obscenities at each other as they played video games, Raditz growing increasingly irritated every time his younger brother humiliated him; occasionally pacing the room and growling that Goku was no brother of his and nothing more than a dirty traitor. Gohan had curled up a few hours earlier on a beanbag and was sleeping soundly, and Chi Chi had been filling Bulma in on all the latest gossip surrounding their old classmates as if she hadn't once been the talk of the school herself.

Even Vegeta – perched on the armrest of the couch - had joined in, albeit without the same enthusiasm as the Son brothers and with a carefully crafted wall separating him from the others, when both Raditz and Goku had challenged him to a fight on one of the video games they were playing. He'd said he'd had no experience with games like that, but it was either a lie or he picked up new skills alarmingly fast because he'd thoroughly kicked Raditz's ass and was currently giving Goku a run for his money. He barely spoke to anyone, only mumbling and grunting in response when someone else talked at him, but it was still more than Bulma had expected from him.

She reached over and grabbed a stray slice of pizza from the box, picking off the peppers and nibbling the end of the triangle daintily. Chi Chi was engrossed in another one of her tales; gesticulating wildly as she spoke, her eyes glowing with mischief.

“-- and then Maron just _left_ with those frat boys _._ Poor Krillin didn't know what to do, it was _so_ embarrassing. He says they're still together but _I'm_ not so sure. I'd never forgive Goku if he just abandoned me to go party with a bunch of college girls. Personally I think he should get back in touch with that girl, you know the one... Mint, was it? Yeah, I think it was Mint. She seemed nice. Much more Krillin's style.”

“Uhuh.”

What exactly was their problem anyway? She was brilliant in every sense of the word. Beautiful, intelligent, charismatic, and a celebrity in her own right. They should have been clawing at the walls to have her involved in their project, not casting her aside to peruse a lunch menu.

“Bulma, are you even listening?”

“Of course.”

The memory of their cold indifference warped into something far more cruel as it replayed in her mind; openly mocking and degrading her now, their rejection inexorable. A crippling wave of self doubt washed over Bulma, forcing her skin to break out into goosebumps and her spine to shiver involuntarily.

“Oh, great. So then I told Goku that Krillin is Gohan's real father, and we ran away together to start a new life out in the mountains.”

“Really?”

“Yup. We were actually hoping you'd come join us. Krillin and I are super into polyamory and we've both had the biggest crush on you for, like, _ever_ , so we just thought we'd go for it.”

Bulma had hoped, naively, that a night surrounded by her loved ones would at least salve the wound, but it did nothing but isolate her further. She couldn't talk about her audition out loud because she just _knew_ that they'd all offer her their condolences and honeyed words of encouragement born from thinly-veiled pity, and her shattered, but nonetheless overinflated ego couldn't handle that.

“Sounds good.”

“ _Bulma_ ” Chi Chi shoved at her friend with a little more force than necessary, her pretty face twisted in a displeased scowl. “I knew you weren't paying attention!”

“I'm sorry Chi Chi, I'm just not feeling myself tonight.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Sure! I think I'm just a little tired,” Chi Chi's probing was making it difficult for Bulma to keep her emotions in check, the restless anxiety building and swelling in the pit of her stomach threatening to erupt and shatter her into thousands of little pieces. She chose to divert her attention, alighting on the sleeping child curled up on the beanbag between his father and the sofa Vegeta was perched on. “Gohan looks just like his father. Every time I see him he's more and more like an identical clone of Goku's.”

Chi Chi sighed, a fond smile pulling at the corner of her lips as her eyes drifted between her husband and her son. “Yeah, he does. But he also has his father's limitless energy and bottomless pit of a stomach. Maybe next time we'll get lucky and have a little girl who looks just like her beautiful mother and doesn't drive me crazy with worry.”

Bulma's eyes went wide, her mouth falling open in surprise. “Next time? Are you...?”

  
Chi Chi laughed, petting Bulma's forearm. “God _no._ We want to actually be ready for a baby before I get pregnant again. But we've talked about it and we both want at least once more. I think if Goku had his way he'd have an entire litter to fill the dojo with , but Gohan's birth wasn't exactly pleasant, so I'd rather not repeat it more than I have to.”

Bulma grinned at the memory that was now clawing at the corners of her mind. Chi Chi had broken Goku's hand during labour, a feat of strength no one had thought possible coming from her, and when Goku had sheepishly rocked up to Capsule Corp a few days later – a teen parent, high school drop out and new husband – it was the hideous neon-pink cast with the words 'YOU”RE NEVER TOUCHING ME AGAIN' scrawled across it (and underlined three times) that brought him the most attention.

To say Gohan's birth had been easy would be a colossal understatement, and the fact that _Goku_ was willing to risk forfeiting another eight weeks of training to impregnate his wife again was a testament to how much he absolutely adored Chi Chi, or the shortness of his memory. Knowing Goku as she did, and having been around the impenetrable fortress that was their relationship for long enough, Bulma would bet money on it being the former.

“So,” Chi Chi dragged the word out, watching Bulma warily. Apparently Bulma wasn't the only one guilty of pursuing desperate topic changes. “Did you hear about Yamcha?”

“What _about_ Yamcha?”

“Come on, don't be like that. I thought you were over him. It's been _years_.”

“I was. I _am._ ”

“Good. Because he's just signed with the West City Taitans and he's throwing a party to celebrate.”

Bulma groaned, pulling her hand over her face. As if she wasn't feeling shit enough, a nice little reminder of her ex-boyfriends success was all she needed to boost her rapidly dwindling confidence. “That's great, Chi Chi,” she managed to bite out. “Why are you telling me?”

“Well you're invited, of course. It's actually not so much a party as it is a few drinks at that new place downtown, you know, 'The GR' I think it's called. I know Yamcha would really like you to be there.”

“Maybe,” Bulma said, if only to appease her friend.

“Please, you _have_ to go. Krillin and Maron are both going and I need to see how this plays out because Krillin definitely deserves better and _she_ needs to be put in her place. Plus Tien and Chiaotzu are gonna be there and you know how long it's been since we were all together in one place.”

“I don't know Chi...” Bulma began, gnawing on her bottom lip. “It might be awkward. We don't talk a lot since we broke up and I don't want things to be weird. I'm supposed to be saving money and--”

“Isn't that why he's here?” Chi Chi asked, nodding her head in Vegeta's direction. He was too invested int the television screen, his brow furrowed in concentration and tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, occasionally pulling his gaze away from the screen to shoot a look at Goku. Raditz was muttering obscenities beside him, clearly getting thoroughly destroyed by one or both of the other men, and Bulma allowed herself a small smile at the scene. “He helps you out with the bills to lighten your load now that Launch is gone.”

“He does, but--”

“No buts! It's settled. You're coming with us.”

Bulma groaned but didn't push the issue any further, instead forcing herself to take an interest in the battle currently taking place in her living room. She entertained Chi Chi more, making a more conscious effort to stay focused and not zone out, but it was proving to be increasingly difficult. She felt worn out by life, worn out by rejection, and she wasn't sure she could face her ex-boyfriends and the entire group in such close quarters when she still had so little to show for herself.

When Raditz lost and tossed his controller to the floor he rose to his feet and strode towards her, tapping her forearm gently. “Hey Chi Chi, I'm gonna borrow Bulma for a few seconds if that's okay?”

Chi Chi glared at her brother-in-law but waved them both away anyway in her reluctant approval. Bulma followed Raditz to her room, her teeth working her bottom lip nervously. For a second her eyes met Vegeta's, having turned to ogle the disturbance, but his expression was unreadable. She left the door open but felt instantly safer to be in her own private domain. 

Raditz held her elbow, his brow raised in concern. His hands felt warm and comforting on her skin, enveloping her in something that was comforting and helped ease the ache in her chest. Bulma leant into the touch, pressing her forehead against Raditz's bicep. The height difference was almost comical at times, and if he were anyone else he'd be the perfect height for her to do some very lewd things with minimal effort. She smirked at her own dirty, inside joke.

“Blue, are you okay?” Raditz asked softly, his other hand falling to rest on the small of her back. “You don't seem yourself.”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that today?”

“You know me. I'm great.”

“You just agreed to a life-long ménage à trois with my sister-in-law and _Krillin,_ and then spent the next twenty minutes biting through your lip. Either you're not doing so hot or you have some kinks that I definitely did not know about,” He grinned, leaning his face in closer. “But if you _are_ into threesomes I'll selflessly volunteer myself as a participant to save you the indignity of banging your tiny bald friend. Purely out of the goodness of my heart, of course.”

“What the hell?! You're so gross,” Bulma shoved him playfully, a ghost of a smile flickering across her face despite herself. “Honestly, it's no big deal.I just don't really feel myself.”

“This doesn't have anything to do with that creep at The Lookout, does it?” Raditz asked. Something about the underlying tone made Bulma think that there was more to the question than her just being visibly distracted, but she chose not to make an issue of it.

“No. Vegeta took care of him, remember? I don't think he'll be coming back any time soon.”

“Are you sure? Want me to go get Goku? You know you can talk about anything with him.” There was a quiet note of jealousy in the statement, and it made Bulma's heart clench defensively. She loved Raditz dearly, but he just couldn't compare to Goku when it came to his importance in her life. As much as she valued Raditz, and as much as it would break her heart to separate him from her world, it was Goku who had been her constant throughout her childhood, Goku who had stood through her side during her lonely adolescence, and Goku who had rescued her from herself more times than she cared to admit. Raditz had drifted in and out of her life and hadn't become a permanent fixture until she was a little older, maybe fifteen or sixteen. By that time Goku and Bulma had already established a near decade long bond that was impossible to come between or outshine. Raditz was at a disadvantage that he simply couldn't pull back from. If she had to choose between the two she'd pick Goku every time, and she suspected that this wasn't the only area of Radtiz's life where he'd come second place to his younger brother.

“No,” Bulma glanced over to her best friend, currently preoccupied by the now very much awake Gohan scrambling on his lap, shrieking in delight as his father tickled him. It was a heartwarming scene, one Bulma didn't want to disturb with her own comparatively petty bullshit. “I told you, I'm fine. You guys don't need to worry about me.”

Raditz looked down and beamed at her, one of his big, wolfish grins that stripped years off of him and made him look like a goofy teenager all over again. “Of course we worry about you. You have a habit of storming off and getting yourself into trouble.”

“I do _not._ ” Bulma said, pouting and jerking herself away from Raditz. She shoved at him again, poking her tongue out petulantly and stomping her foot, a small tantrum brewing within her.

Raditz just laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her her face, his thumb lingering on her cheekbone. “You do to.”

His head dipped and the gap between them shrank, scant centimetres apart now, faces practically touching. His eyes drooped in a dopey half lidded expression, and with a sickening awareness Bulma knew what was coming next. Fear paralysed her, her veins aching, and she pushed herself back with an awkward laugh.

“C'mon, we better go back, it's my turn. We need to show the new guy who the toughest fighter is, right?”

She chose to ignore the frustrated huff and new found tightness of Raditz's jaw. Concentrating only on the hammering of her heart and the need to find an open space so she could _breathe._

“ _Fuck_.”

\--------

The nights were still cold, a harsh nip in the air that still threatened to strike unexpectedly, but becoming increasingly more comfortable, and Vegeta let a cloud of smoke billow from his nostrils as he soaked in the night from the fire escape. Bulma's little soiree had been exhausting, but not as terrible as he'd expected. Raditz's brother - Goku or Kakarot, or whatever the fuck he called himself – had crawled under his skin with his thinly veiled threats and obnoxious attempts at goading Vegeta into competitions, but he actually kind of liked it. For the first time in as long as Vegeta could remember he actually _wanted_ to fight with someone, namely this 'Goku', and wasn't just being forced to. The video game battle had been a nice little prelude, a warm up to the actual thing that seemed to aptly demonstrate their mutual desire to win. He almost wanted to take Goku up on his offer for a sparring match at the dojo, although he'd never actually admit it. The cherry of his cigarette crackled and hissed against the cool of the night, the low hum of dying traffic and the whistle of the wind made him feel less alone. He looked up at the sky, polluted by light but still peppered with the occasional star, and the glow of the moon obscured by clouds.

 _Seems like a pretty shitty deal if ya ask me._  
_Who the fuck would want **him**?_  
_Lord Frieza, apparently._  
_Actually... if you think about it it makes sense. He's just a puny little runt, good for awkward jobs. Not to mention he's disposable, wouldn't raise any questions. No on would even miss him if he died ._

They'd sauntered off home about twenty minutes ago, but he'd retreated to the fire escape long before then; worn out by the intensity of social interaction and prolonged exposure to relatively normal human beings.

He endured most things pretty well; learned to take a beating without so much as a glassy eye before the age of ten years old, knew to bottle up anger in the company of his slaver and _most_ of the higher ups while in their company, had practiced a stony mask of indifference when his lessers slung insults his way in an attempt to break him. Vegeta thought he was pretty good at enduring shit that made him uncomfortable. Apparently not.

How the fuck did people do it? How did they go around forcing themselves to chatter inanely about mediocre bullshit as if any of it really fucking mattered? Being in their company for more than an hour had been taxing to say the least, even with Bulma and Raditz there to buffer the situation. It certainly hadn't helped that he was still bristling with his earlier frustrations; Dodoria's fat, arrogant face residing behind one eye while Nappa's piteous face inhabited the other. It set him on edge, more so than usual, and it had taken all of his self restraint not to take it out on Bulma's friends. But he knew that if he kicked off he'd likely be kicked out, and he'd rather _not_ go back to living out of an over-sized gym bag and eating cheap take-out or cold meals-for-one because his motel room didn't have basic cooking amenities.

As if on cue he heard a scuttling from behind him and he turned just in time to see Bulma clambering through the window to join him on the fire escape. She looked relieved to see him, if not a little tired, handing Vegeta a bottle of beer as she sat down. He took it gratefully but thanklessly,

“I didn't know you smoke.”

Vegeta blew out a cloud of smoke, “I don't."

“Me either,” Bulma smiled, digging around in her pocket and revealing a crumpled cigarette carton. She lit a cigarette and place it between her lips, inhaling. At some point in the evening, he wasn't sure when, she'd tied her hair back and now soft, wispy strands of teal were breaking free and hanging about her face. It suited her, he thought. Then again, the fuck did he know about fashion or aesthetic? “When I was sixteen my dad caught me smoking behind the main building, and I was sure he was going to ground me for the rest of my _life_. He just looked me up and down and said 'honey, if you're going to smoke at least make sure you have a decent taste in cigarettes' and pulled out two of his own, handing one to me. We used to smoke together in the lab sometimes. It was unconventional but nice.”

“Hng.”

“Mom used to get so _mad,_ which is saying something because my mom never gets mad. But I'd hear her yelling at my dad for 'corrupting' me with such a dirty habit and she'd threaten to withhold his favourite meals unless he stopped. He eventually invented a type of spray that prevents smoke from lingering on clothes and skin. It would have been so much easier to just go cold turkey, but he'd rather go to all this trouble just so he could carry on with his twenty-a-day. My dad was funny like that.”

She paused, tucking one of the wayward strands of hair behind her ear. “I only really smoke now when I miss him. I think it's the smell, it reminds me of home.”

Bulma had an annoying habit of disarming him with unfiltered honesty, tearing down his defences with anecdotes he was ill equipped to respond or relate to. She shared snippets of her past as readily as she had shared her home with a complete stranger who she _knew_ was part of a gang, and he found himself questioning her sanity _again_.

That being said, her little story aroused his curiosity, so different to his own troubled childhood, and Vegeta tried to imagine a teenaged Bulma bumming cigarettes off of her father, waxing lyrical in a smoggy lab while working out her genius and very literally changing the world around her. Would a sixteen-year-old Bulma have so easily accepted a nineteen-year-old Vegeta into her life? With a comfortable inheritance still providing her with a plush safety net while he ferried drugs and perfected the art of Chinese Water Torture, he thought not. Maybe if things had been different, maybe if his father had actually been a parent and protected him, they could have been friends, like Raditz and Goku. Tarble would have _definitely_ liked her, he'd always been drawn to sweet, beautiful things. Perhaps they'd have even dated, they were close in age, although Tarble may have struggled with her abrasive, no-nonsense personality and vulgar mouth. Either way they'd all be together, and Vegeta wouldn't be hiding on a fire escape right now because he had no idea how to interact with human beings in a way that didn't involve his fists. They'd all be happy, and he'd be _normal,_ and it would be _him_ in her photographs and not Raditz.

Not that it mattered now.

Tarble was gone forever, and they'd have never been friends. The person Vegeta had the potential to be had died in the exchange of trusting progeny like used goods, and trying to bring them back was like chasing a ghost. Even if he caught up with it, his groping fingers would only slip through the vaporous frame, and he'd be left empty handed and disappointed.  
Vegeta would forever be a socially inept thug, and _that_ fantasy would remain forever that. Just a fantasy. A moment of imaginative weakness.

“I love the stars. They make me feel so hopeful, like I can do anything,” Bulma said quietly, interrupting his mental rumination, dragging him back to the present. She was staring at the sky, cheeks flushed and eyes almost doleful, her cigarette dangling limply from the corner of her lips.

Vegeta snorted, embarrassed that he let his mind wander, embarrassed that he was _staring_ now. He followed her gaze and narrowed his eyes at the darkness. “They make me feel insignificant. They just remind me that nothing I do really matters.”

“That's so sad,” Bulma said, her attention never leaving the night sky. Was it sad? It hadn't felt so, it had just been a rare bubble of honestly. Vegeta had thought he was simply making an observation, but now his confession felt raw and too personal to have shared. He didn't want her pity, didn't need it. He turned to face her again, studying her more critically, intending to chew her out, but stopped. Her eyes captured and reflected the stars perfectly, forming new constellations in azure skylines that he wanted to explore endlessly. They promised new worlds ripe for the taking; a herculean, multifarious galaxy that he irrationally wanted to rule with an iron fist. He was a different creature, would or could be in this new universe, stronger, more capable, undeserving of her pity. Perhaps, instead, deserving of her respect, her admiration. He could be a _real_ prince - no, _king -_ and she could be whatever the hell she wanted to be, and maybe their worlds would collide like meteors from time to time, but they would both be free to command their own destinies. No Frieza, no Zarbon and Dodoria, no misery.

It looked perfect, trapped in the blues of her irises.

_Damn her and her ability to make him lose his fucking mind._

Who was she? He barely knew her and yet she had this goddamn pull on him, dragging him into her orbit. And she was still looking at him like he was some fragile, broken thing who needed her to sympathy and he fucking _hated_ it. Huffing, Vegeta crushed his own cigarette and looked away. “I like the moon, itmakes me feel powerful. As though I could conquer the world if it pleased me to do so,” he said almost desperately, willing for it to be enough to wipe that expression off of her face.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” He could hear the smile in her voice, but didn't dare peak at her. He heard her sigh, and felt slim fingers brush over his own. “I feel like I neglected you tonight.”

“What?”

“I wanted you to get to know everyone so we could all be friends, but I barely spoke to you all evening.”

Vegeta turned to look at their joined hands, working his jaw painfully as he did so; her milky white skin contrasting sharply with his dark skin, marred and swollen from his earlier assault on the dumpster. Her fingertips brushed over his bruised knuckles delicately, as if trying to soothe away the damage, but she said nothing and for that he was grateful. Even if he did wish she'd just stop touching him altogether so that his stomach would stop somersaulting. “It's fine,” he said gruffly. “I was busy anyway.”

“That I did notice. You and Goku seem to get along quite well.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“Of course you wouldn't,” she nudged him gently and retracted her hand, finishing her cigarette before flicking it off of the fire escape and down the the alleyway below. They sat in companionable silence, sipping beer and swinging their legs over black grate metal, and Vegeta allowed his mind to wander again, sloping off into nothingness in an attempt to escape from himself. He almost didn't hear her when she started speaking again, her voice a quiet whisper in his ear. “Vegeta, what do you do?”

Vegeta frowned, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny, somewhat disappointed to have been pulled from out of his bubble _again_. “I thought Raditz informed you of my...career path.”

“Oh yeah, I know all about the reluctant gangster thing. That's not what I mean.”

“How do you know it's reluctant?” He grouched. “Maybe I _like_ what I do.”

“Because Raditz is there against his will, and you have the same lost look in your eyes,” Bulma took a swig of her beer. “You're avoiding the question.”

“It seems you already know the answer.”

“I'm not asking you what you do for a living, dummy. I'm asking you what you _do._ What sets your soul on fire?”

“...”

There was a pregnant pause as Vegeta mulled over the question. What _did_ he do? He didn't have any hobbies, and he'd only been allowed to attend school to avoid suspicion. He'd done well enough academically, money laundering did wonders for your numeracy skills, but he'd never picked up any extra-curricular activities that could evolve and transition into his every-day life, and his only companions – intrusive roommate aside – were his work colleagues. Most of which he hated with a fiery passion. Frieza had such a grapple hold on his life that the only hobby Vegeta had was staying alive long enough to taste freedom. Embarrassed by his lack of answer, Vegeta opted to deflect. “Why acting? With your intellect, with your enormous wealth, you could do anything you wanted. You don't have slave away here.”

“When people look at me they don't actually see me, they see my father's legacy; Bulma Briefs, Capsule Corp. heiress. At least this way... at least I can control what people see. Even if they don't see _me_ , they'll see a version of me that wasn't crafted by someone else. At least then I can say I tried. I don't... I don't want to just be seen as my father's daughter. I don't want to exist only to carry his burdens.”

_The sins of the father shall be visited upon by the son. I shall make **you** pay tenfold._

Vegeta's throat dried, and he was abruptly drowning in sand. In an attempt to clear his windpipe he gulped greedily at his beer, not even caring that half of it was dribbling down his chin. When he finally felt capable of speaking, he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I get that.”

Bulma smiled, apparently encouraged. “I mean... broadly speaking, what’s our purpose? In one hundred years we'll be dead, and aside from a lousy gravestone and a pile of bones there’ll be nothing here to prove that we even existed. There has to be more to this life than just following in someone else's footsteps because other people want us to. We’re given eighty years – ninety at a push, to live this life and most of us waste it by doing things that make us unhappy, all because that’s what we’re _expected_ to do. So I did what we should all be doing and took a risk. What do you wanna do when you leave, Vegeta? I mean you're not gonna be working there forever, right? Raditz talks about leaving all the time. ”

Vegeta frowned. He'd never really thought that far ahead, too concerned with the freedom he'd never experienced before. It was his singular goal, so he'd never crafted a secondary option for himself on the off-chance he achieved it. He fought the urge to look away and break the look they shared, but it was felt like his only way of being honest. Bulma would try and pull the answer from Vegeta regardless of his attempts at protesting, and if he could try and tell her through some odd psychic connection instead of uttering the words to life, then maybe the admission that he had nothing to strive towards wouldn't hurt so much. Her smile waned, and she seemed to understand, but he breathed the words to life anyway.

“I don't know.”

“That's okay. You're young, you'll figure something out. You have time.”

They lapsed into silence again, watching the world roll by without them side-by-side. When Bulma began to shiver and shake she scooted closer, stealing the warmth of Vegeta's body heat, and he let her without argument. It felt nice having her press up against him. Helped soothe the ever-present ache in his chest. He could still feel her body vibrating, and he had half a mind to shuck off his hoody and drape it over her shoulders. But it felt too personal, too intrusive, so he merely relaxed his arm so she could nudge closer if she wished.

He was quietly thrilled when she did.

She smelt faintly of salt-water, the nearness of her body revealing a bouquet of scents that came together to create a perfume entirely her own. In spite of her day off and subsequent distance from The Lookout the faint redolence of roasted coffee beans still clung dutifully to her skin, overpowered somewhat by the distinctly synthetic strawberry of her hair – the shampoo he'd once made the grave mistake of using only to face her wrath hours later – and the vanilla of her lotion. The salt-water and the cigarette smoke were new additions, one pleasant and the other no so, but did nothing to detract from the sheer femininity of her.

“Your audition didn't go well, did it?”

“...No.” Bulma's face fell and her shoulders tensed. “What tipped you off?”

“You pinched yourself when Raditz's sister-in-law asked you about it.”

“I did?”

“Yes. It's something a lot of people do to ground themselves and reign in unruly emotions.”

Bulma laughed, just a little, but it was lacking. The sound made his stomach flip uncomfortable, and he tried to scowl the sensation away. “I'd have never guessed you were such an expert in body language.”

“Yeah, well I'd never have pegged you for a masochist,” Vegeta said, daring to glance in her direction. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Nah, not really,” Bulma's hand found his own again, her fingers tracing the outline of a long scar that ran from his centre knuckle to his wrist. Frieza had given it to him when he was only twelve years old, and the grazing of her skin against his almost felt like the harsh bite of the whip that had cut his hungry, groping hand to the bone. “They stopped paying attention like thirty seconds in and started talking about _sandwiches._ I put my all into that audition and they couldn't even be bothered to pay attention.”

“Fuck 'em.”

She paused in her ministrations, her fingers curling against his flesh slightly. “What?”

“Fuck 'em. So they didn't like you? Why waste your breath on it? Use each defeat to your advantage and rebuild yourself to be stronger. Have some pride, stand tall and fuck 'em.”

“Pride, huh?” Bulma repeated, rolling the word over her tongue. Her fingertips resumed their pattern, and Vegeta couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't jerked his hand away yet. He was pretty tired, and drained in all aspects from of the day. Maybe that's why he couldn't bring himself to just tell her to fuck off. It was easier to just be compliant and put up with it until she got bored. That's what he told himself.

“It's the only thing no-one can take from you unless you let them,” He turned his face level with hers, onyx meeting blue, locked and bleeding together. His hand turned over so that their palms now touched, and he blamed the alcohol and the melancholic serenity for the fact that he was holding someone's hand for the first time in his adult life. “You can lose everything else by force, have it all stripped from you without your consent, but you keep your pride as long as you _want_ to keep it.”

“You're a strange one, Bad Man,” Bulma whispered, her fingers slotting between his to press their conjoined hands closer together.

She squeezed and he squeezed back.“Tch.”

There was something comforting about the fact her day had been just as awful as his, and it reminded Vegeta of their first tense meeting. Their shared misery then had been a source of amusement, something to placate the restless surge of his own inadequacies, but now it simply made him feel like alone. As though he was no longer fighting away by himself, but with an equally battle-worn ally by his side.

Bulma stirred, huddling a little close to him to snatch even more of his body heat for herself, and Vegeta growled with faux-irritability, the spell broken. “If you're that cold you should just go back inside.”

“Don't want to,” She leant her cheek on his shoulder, her breath ghosting across his throat and forcing his skin to break out in goosebumps. “This is nice.”

Vegeta's cheeks flamed, now hyper aware of the fact that he _was_ holding this girl's hand, and she was touching him more personally than he allowed anyone to touch him and she _completely okay with it_. He tried to rationalise it; tried not to take it personally, after all she'd demonstrated that she was very hands-on with her friends, almost constantly needing to touch or be touched. For some reason that didn't make him feel any better. In fact, it made him feel a little worse. “Women, get off of me. I'm not your personal radiator.”

“If you were able to successfully remove the stick that's currently lodged in your rectal cavity you'd probably be a hit with the ladies, just saying. You've got that whole bad-boy vibe going for you, you're so _cozy,_ and a surprisingly good listener.”

“Hn.”

He didn't care about women, didn't care about his potential desirability or lack thereof. He didn't even really care about the bullshit of the day, or the energy-sapping evening he'd just endured.

Vegeta only cared about the muted rumble of passing cars, and the almost pleasant nip of the night's breeze. And, though he would admit it to himself, much less say it aloud, the lithe little body pressed neatly against his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your continued patience, and I'm so thrilled that so many of you seem to enjoy reading this little story just as much as I love writing it. After a little [mishap with my hand earlier this week](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/post/167486631646/when-is-the-next-imbroglio-or-city-of-stars-update) as well as a bucked load of other real-life nonsense, I've just been struggling. 
> 
> The second half of this chapter was a lot of fun to write, as it was one of the first scenes I envisioned while this story was being conceived. Again, major apologies in the delay between chapters, and thank you so much for your patience and support. 
> 
> As of the next update (chapter 5) chapters will be accessible 24 hours before general release. You can read more about it [here](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/writing) (as well as information about my uploading schedule, chapter progress, and if you want to just have a chat about all things DBZ)


	5. Sisyphean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta struggles with the choices he must make in order to survive. Bulma struggles with strange new sensations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How this chapter ended up exceeding 13k words is beyond me, as I really struggled writing it and just felt like I… couldn't _enjoy_ what I'd written as it just didn't translate from my brain to page the way I wanted it to.   
>  As always this is un-beta'd, as I write and edit at ridiculous hours, so please don't hesitate to bring up mistakes if you spot them!

* * *

“The whole world from your bedroom? Who's doing that? _”  
\- _ Sebastian Wilder, La La Land (2016)

\--------

“You self-entitled asshole. Did you use all the milk again?”

Vegeta glanced down at his bowl of cornflakes, overflowing with dairy evidence. He glanced up at the woman screaming obscenities at him, still preoccupied with the empty milk carton,and shrugged. “No.”

The fridge door slammed shut, the contents rattling noisily. Bulma immediately spotted Vegeta's breakfast, her face reddening with anger, and stomped over to point a finger into his face. “You're such a jerk, you know that?”

“Tch.”

Before he had chance to react, Bulma yanked the bowl from out of Vegeta's hands, shoving several spoonfuls of his remaining cereal into her mouth. Milk dribbled from her lips and down her chin, and she maintained eye contact with him with every crunch, clearly savouring her victory.

A low growl formed in the back of Vegeta's throat and he felt his blood begin to boil. “You're a goddamn bitch.”

She swallowed her mouthful and narrowed her eyes. “Charming as ever, Vegeta.”

“Fuck off.”

Bulma scowled at him before the mask cracked and the downturn of her lips warped into a grin. Vegeta kept up the pretence for a fraction of a second longer before permitting himself a sly upturn of his lips. After shoving a final spoonful into her mouth the bowl was pushed back over to Vegeta, and he finished his breakfast as she wiped her chin with the back of her hand.

They'd fallen into a comfortable pattern.. Though the truth was that this involved a lot of shrieking, pithy remarks, general complaining and over-all hostility, it was oddly _enjoyable_ , and whatever animosity they held towards each other in those frustrated instances flickered and died the moment they'd had enough, and Bulma and Vegeta could part ways with a satisfied grin and an increasingly smouldering fondness for one another. She riled him up, and he habitually pissed her off. That's just the way things were. But that didn't stop them collapsing into the battered old sofa with cheap beer and shit, overly processed food and occasionally dozing off side-by-side.

Whatever melancholic, almost depressive spell she had fallen into following her failed audition she had quickly snapped out of, and their evening on the fire escape was rarely brought up other than when Bulma wanted to tease Vegeta about his so-called 'soft' side, usually during arguments that she wanted to win. It was a softness than Vegeta vociferously denied, his face heating uncomfortably every time she dared bring up the fact that he had _held her hand_ , and such conversations quickly devolved into shouting matches that left Vegeta flustered and frustrated, and Bulma wearing a shit eating grin and chuckling to herself.

Bulma watched as Vegeta dumped the carcass of his breakfast into the sink, and she toyed with the sleeves of her shirt – clearly a mens button up, far too large for her – a coy smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “So, how do you want to do this?”

“I don't care, whatever way you want. Let's just get it over and done with, okay? The quicker we get going the quicker we're going to be done.”

“Tsk, you're always so impatient,” Bulma took his hand in hers, and Vegeta frowned. She always insisted on touching him, her body always finding his, as if magnetised, even if the situation never called for it. It was as though a switch had been flipped after their rocky initial encounter, and instead of repelling one another as they once had, they were instead inexplicably drawn to skin-on-skin contact. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. Had never been touched with anything remotely resembling kindness for so long, and had never really had any friends so the mere act of brushing flesh against flesh left him feeling raw and uncertain. “But just so you know, you're going to have to do most of the heavy lifting. I'm pretty fragile.”

“Obviously,” he said with a huff, rolling his eyes.

Bulma led Vegeta to his bedroom, his palms sweating and her fingers twitching nervously. She hesitated before she turned the door knob, gnawing on her bottom lip. “So, are you ready? There's no going back once we do this.”

“I said I was, didn't I woman? Quit wasting my time. I'm skipping the gym for this.”

“This was _your_ idea, mister,” Bulma waggled her eyebrows, her shoulders mimicking the gesture as though her body were a liquid, ebbing and flowing all at once. “Trust me, you'll definitely get a good workout out of this.”

\--------

His room looked like a crime scene in waiting; every visible surface meticulously covered in plastic wrap and old shower curtains, the windows blacked out and taped up. He had been alarmingly efficient as they set up, shoving her aside and gruffly barking that her method was _all wrong_ and allowed for spills and messes to get through. She'd left him to it after that, resigning herself to pouring paint into trays; just _waiting_ for Vegeta to emerge from behind a door sporting a raincoat and asking her for her thoughts on Huey Lewis and The News.

Bulma had once auditioned for the role of a cadaver ( _'the next Laura Palmer!'_ the ad had claimed) in a cop show boasting sets like this. She hadn't got the part, apparently she was too _animated_ to properly play the part of a corpse, but binge watching crime dramas with Launch to prepare for her silent role had been pretty fun, if nothing else.

“So... what made you pick blue?”

Vegeta grunted a non-answer in response, slathering his roller with yet another layer of the dark paint before applying it to the wall in messy, frustrated strokes. The section of wall he was working on was sloppy, the distribution of colour was uneven. There were visible drips running down and staining areas that were still exposed and pink, and there was no rhyme or reason in his method. His heart didn't seem fully into the task, either because to him it was simply an annoyance that had to be taken care of, or because it signified a permanence in their cohabitation that unnerved and frustrated him. Enigmatic as always, Bulma couldn't say for certain what exactly was brewing in that head of his, but either way he seemed vexed. In contrast, Bulma's segment was neat, royal blue rolled expertly onto wall without so much as an uneven smudge. It made her think about the times she'd paint the lab with her father, or painstakingly hand-apply Capsule Corp. decal to their latest prototypes. She'd always been particularly meticulous when it came to aesthetics, and she wondered whether her father took as much care in her absence, or if he'd simply abandoned the need for visual perfection when she had abandoned the compound.

Bulma swatted at Vegeta with her free hand when he didn't answer, swatting away the creeping unease that always came with thinking about her former life with it, seconds bleeding by without so much as a look in her direction. “Hey jackass, I'm talking to you!”

Predictably Vegeta huffed, his jaw working overtime as he ground his teeth. “Damn it, woman. What do you want?”

“I asked you why you picked blue,” Bulma tried again, the roller in her hand stilling and falling limply by her side.

“Why does everything have to be dripping with sentiment as far as you're concerned? I don't know. I just did. It's a strong colour.” Vegeta paused and pulled a face. “It's better than _pink_.”

“So nothing to do with your beautiful, wonderful roommate who happens to have blue hair?” She bat her eyelashes for effect, cupping her chin with her palm.

The snort that followed was almost offensive, mocking in its tone. Bulma scowled, earning her a smug, self-satisfied smirk from her roommate. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

Vegeta rolled his eyes and grunted, half-heartedly mumbling something under his breath about 'conceited, spoilt princesses', but Bulma let it go with a laugh. His roller returned to the wall, up and down in long, messy strokes, and she just watched, quietly admiring him from the corner of her eye.

The worn, grey wife-beater practically painted onto his hard body showed off an alarming number of scars of various ages; white, long healed wounds intersecting with blemishes that were still raw and pink. Not a scrap of him seemed to be spared except for his face, and Bulma suspected that if she peaked beneath his clothing she'd find much of the same. Still, Vegeta didn't seem to care. He was impressively built, his scars weren't exactly _ugly_ , and whether he was even still aware of them at this point was unclear. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, the scientist within her, not quite dead, eager to prod and probe, to know more about how a man so young could acquire such an impressive display of injuries. But she knew better than to ask, and despite her ever-mounting curiosity Bulma sensibly held her tongue.

“You're staring.”

“Your ugly mug is distracting.”

He dropped the roller in favour of a paintbrush, but instead of turning it to the wall he flicked it in Bulma's direction instead, showering her with droplets of blue. “It's rude to stare.”

Bulma recoiled from the attack, clutching her hand to her paint splattered heart in shock. “You _bastard_ , I'm going to get you for that!”

“You're pathetically weak,” Vegeta shoved her lightly as if to prove his point, smirking when she stumbled. “Enlighten me, how exactly are you going to 'get me'?”

“I'm not as weak as you oof--”

She was caught off guard when something firm swept her backwards and off of her feet. Vegeta had her pinned against one of the untouched walls, a paint lathered brush angled threateningly under her chin. He looked wild, something primitive and dangerous dancing in his coal-black eyes as he increased the pressure of his forearm against her chest. His nostrils flared in rhythm with the laboured rise and fall of his chest, and the upturn of his lips could almost be considered cruel. It should have frightened her, she _knew_ where he came from, could make an educated guess about what he did that would probably hit the nail on the head. But Bulma felt calm. Safe.

“You were saying?” He asked, his voice a low growl that vibrated through both of their bodies.

Bulma leant forward and pressed her throat against the brush, the cold, gloopy sensation of paint against her skin causing her to shiver. She returned his grin with one of her own, equally as wicked, not just rising up to the challenge but making it her own.

“You may the devil,” she said huskily, “but I am something far worse.”

Vegeta's eyes widened and his jaw fell slack, his grip on her loosening in surprise. He attempted to speak but it was little more than a strangled noise that caught and gurgled comically, the faint hint of pink dusted across his face. Bulma seized her opportunity, snatching the paintbrush from his hand and slashing it across his chest. She scrambled to regain her footing, vaulting to her feet and pointing her weapon at him.

And so the battle began.

“Devious little cunt.” Despite the acridity of his words he was smiling, Vegeta grabbed for a new brush, dipping it in the paint pot to reload before chasing her across his bedroom with it.

Bulma shrieked in delight whenever she managed to land a blow on Vegeta, and in mock terror when paint met her flesh.She was thankful for the plastic wrap, thick blue rain drops spraying everywhere as they warred for dominance, duelling with the brushes like children with wooden swords, spitting jabs and insults at one another. It had all happened so suddenly, and she was swept up in a rush of adrenaline and joviality, her heart beating a rapid tattoo in her chest. She felt herself launch off of her feet, the muscled arm around her waist lifting her off of the ground as the other groped for her weapon. She writhed, feebly attempting to break free, but to no avail. His body was impossibly warm and solid stretched against hers, and though his grip was firm it was never tight or restrictive.

And then she stopped wriggling against her attacker, the most bizarre sound in the world completely immobilising her. Bulma looked around for the source of the noise, her eyes widening when she realised what it was.

Vegeta was _laughing_.

In all the time she had known him she'd never heard something so carefree and happy come from Vegeta's mouth. Yet here he was, his head thrown back, face smeared with paint, laughing as he held Bulma against him. It was beautiful. A deep, vibrating baritone that floated musically about her senses; a tidal wave that dragged her under and swept her up, stirring something vaguely familiar, though not quite discernible, inside of her. Their faces were mere centimetres apart, his usually hard set eyes creased around the corners, a genuine, breath taking smile accompanying the noises of mirth escaping from parted lips. He was still groping for Bulma's paintbrush; one arm wrapped firmly around her waist, holding her in place, while the other ran the length of hers as his hand tried to pry the brush from her fingers. And then Vegeta's laughter began to peter out, her frozen silence stretching on for far too long.

She was staring. Again.

“What's wrong?” He frowned and looked down at his hands, his fingers uncurling from their place on her hip. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, it's just...” Bulma trailed off, trying to think of the appropriate way to phrase it. Multiple variants sprang to mind, but no matter how she shuffled the words around it sounded corny and dumb. The familiar, prickling heat of a blush nipping at her skin, and Bulma tried to swallow it down along with her pride. “I've never heard you laugh like that before. I like it.”

The revelation seemed to catch Vegeta by surprise and he blinked rapidly. He almost seemed flustered, a faint blush of his own taking up residence on his high cheekbones and clashing nicely with the rich, dark silk of his skin.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Vegeta cleared his throat, looking off to the side in that serious way of his, achingly uncomfortable. “We should finish up.”

“We should.”

He made no effort to retract from her body though, still caging her hand with his own, the other still resting on her hip, though far more gently now. His proximity was scorching, a wild inferno that threatened to engulf her should she not retreat immediately. Had his eyes always been so dark? The undisturbed sea at midnight; black and bottomless, the iris and the pupil practically indistinguishable save for the occasional flicker of silvery-blue that set them apart. She was dancing with danger, a buried, instinctual voice warning her to back away and keep her distance. She had watched him break bones as easily as twigs snapping underfoot, had been on the receiving end of his barbarism during their rocky first encounter. Everything about him was seeped in darkness, and yet, seized by a momentary lapse in sanity, she wanted to bathe in it. With his head turned she had a clear view of his throat, and Vegeta's adam's apple bobbed simultaneously with the tightening of his hand around her wrist, her pulse leaping in alarm, every coherent thought she had immediately scattering at the increased contact. The desire to do something reckless and totally idiotic surged up from within her, eager to press herself further into the flames,.The sensible part of her brain – usually dutifully ignored at the best of times – reduced to gelatinous goop and unable to formulate a convincing argument as to why this was a very _bad idea_.

No one was laughing now.

And then the universe elected to intervene and save Bulma from herself; the shrill ring of a cell phone breaking whatever spell they were momentarily under. Vegeta sprang away from Bulma as if she were a leper, eyeing her suspiciously as he retrieved his phone from his pocket.

“Yes?” Vegeta snapped. His brows knit together as he listened to the speaker, occasionally casting Bulma a sidelong look as she nursed her wrist. “Can't someone else handle it? I don't know, how about one of the fucking Ginyus? Cui and his little band of nobodies? Or how about Nappa and Raditz pick up the slack and do something for themselves for once in their fucking lives?”

Whatever was said clearly didn't sit well with Vegeta, his jaw tightening and his hand curling up into a fist at his side.

“Fuck it, _fine_. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Bulma's heart dropped into her stomach, sizzling painfully as it met acid. The sour look on Vegeta's face coupled with his brief phone call told her all she needed to know; their little DIY bonding session would be cut painfully short, and he seemed to be just as disappointed as she was.

“Who was that?” she asked, half hopeful that she'd misunderstood, that he'd pick up a roller and they could continue.

“Work,” Vegeta replied with a grimace. “Apparently there's an emergency that I absolutely have to come in for. Fucking bullshit.”

“Oh.”

“I need to go clean up. Don't worry about this. I'll finish some other time.”

“Okay.”

He stormed into the hallway without so much as a backwards glance, and a few seconds later Bulma heard the bathroom door slam shut. The spaces of skin Vegeta's hands had touched still tingled, a pleasant burn that left invisible scars engrained in her flesh. She let the paintbrush drop from her fingers and hit the ground, an inky spattering caking her feet and the plastic wrapped furniture. She felt inexplicably distressed, not from the mess she had made, but in the absence of Vegeta; the loss of his company and the loss of his touch.

She suddenly felt incredibly lonely.

Bulma shook her head, trying to shake away the negative feelings and stepped out of Vegeta's room to collapse onto the sofa. She turned the TV on and stared at the screen, not really watching whatever was playing, and instead gnawing on her bottom lip. A few minutes later Vegeta reemerged from the bathroom wearing black jeans and a sweatshirt, looking significantly less paint smeared, but definitely more miserable. He was shoving his feet into a pair of heavy black boots when he grit out a series of swearwords.

“Do you have to go?”

In a rare gesture of affection, Vegeta reached out to pat her head. She had almost always been the one to instigate physical contact of any kind, and the care with which he was touching her now re-awoke the same strange ineffable feelings that had haunted her during their play fight.

“Yes.” He finished lacing his boots and rose to his feet, walking over to the kitchen counter and grabbing his keys. He turned to face her one last time, an apologetic half-smile ghosting across his lips. “I don't know when I'll be back.”

“Bye Vegeta,” Bulma said quietly, offering him a small wave.

\--------

Vegeta had been gone for thirty-seven minutes, and the crappy reality TV show that had been play on-screen for twenty-three of those minutes had failed in capturing Bulma's attention. She felt guilty, a distraction who had snatched up Vegeta's morning while his boss had stolen the remains of the day. All he'd wanted to do is make his room more like a home, and instead she'd forced him to engage in some silly game which had resulted in him looking at her like... well, she didn't exactly know.

But the way he leapt away from her, and the sulky manner in which he looked at her during his phone call stuck in her mind, and she couldn't help but feel as though he was mad at her, though she couldn't imagine _why_. And she desperately wanted to make it up to him, whatever _it_ was.

And then, because she was Bulma Briefs and Bulma Briefs was a goddamn _genius_ , she was struck by an idea so simple, yet so brilliant, she was disappointed that she hadn't thought of it earlier.

She grabbed her bag and rooted around in it, counting the singles and change that marked the last of her pay-check for the month. She had nineteen dollars and thirty one cents in her purse, more than enough for what she had planned.

Snatching her phone she scrolled through her contacts, the recipient picking up after the fourth ring.

“Bulma? What's up?” She could _hear_ the smile in Goku's voice, and the anxieties of the day melted away at the sound of his voice. Goku had always been such a calming, grounding influence, able to remedy any wrong present in her life just by virtue of being Goku.

“Hey! Can you come over? I need your help with something.”

There were children squealing in the background, and Bulma was sure she could hear Tien commanding them to _be quiet_ and pay attention. Shit. She forgot that he was working today. “Sure! I can be at your place in about an hour.”

“Don't worry if you can't make it...”

“No, no. It's fine. My last class finishes soon.”

“Great! Can you hit up a hardware store on you way please? I'll text you the details.”

“Uh, okay.”

Bulma grinned, her stomach churning in excited anticipation. “Excellent, see you then!”

\--------

“You didn't tell me you had a nephew.”

The silence was crushing in the confines of his car, and Vegeta had to say _something_ before it drove him insane. He rarely had time to himself (then again he _was_ essentially a glorified slave) so the fact that he'd had a precious few hours he'd dedicated to finally make his room _his,_ and spending time with the roommate he was growing increasingly, and uncharacteristically attached to, snatched from him on Frieza's whim didn't sit well with him. Coupled with the fact that they were heading back to 'The Namek' when the look of horror on that kid's face had only just began to fade from his dreams, Vegeta was stewing in his own frustrations.

Raditz made a clicking noise with his teeth and tongue, far more relaxed than his counterpart. “You never asked. Besides, the kid's mom doesn't like me much. Looks at me like I might snatch the brat up and steal him away at a moments notice.”

“Can you blame her? You're a fucking train wreck.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Raditz shrugged. There was no counter argument to try and propound otherwise, no redeeming quality that glossed over the fact that Raditz habitually immersed himself in the shadows of the worst parts of society, lived with a balding ape, and had no long-term _legal_ prospects for someone who was too close to thirty to warrant having no dreams at all. Raditz's life was a fucking joke, a bad one that Vegeta was also in on, and if he had kids he wouldn't want them around the big brute either. Hell, he wouldn't even want to subject his own offspring to his company. “Nappa's still pretty upset.”

“He'll get over it.”

Ah, Nappa.

Vegeta had stayed out of his former mentors way as much as possible since the incident with Dodoria, merely grunting at him when they had work to do, and dutifully ignoring him when there wasn't. There was no denying that Vegeta felt a little guilty about his treatment towards Nappa. The older man had every right to be concerned and irritated, after all Vegeta's behaviour a few weeks prior had resulted in a punishment that had impacted them all. If the roles were reversed Vegeta would have done a lot worse than just chew the guy out, though Nappa had admittedly earned some wiggle room if only because he was the sole person who genuinely seemed to give a shit about him till Bulma rolled had along. But it was bad enough that Raditz's respect for him was entirely selective, going from obedient henchman to overly-familiar annoyance in a nanosecond, and Vegeta had to claw back at least a modicum of respect and authority if he wanted to be viewed as anything more than a laughing stock and Frieza's plaything.

Nappa had hit far too close to home for Vegeta's liking, so the logical solution had been to lash out and destroy.

He allowed Raditz to prattle on about the internal politics of his family, of the apparent race to see who could fuck up more – the son who knocked up a girl before he could drive, or the son who accidentally signed his life away to the Lord of the Underworld, while he drove. The constant stream of noise helped kill the dull ache in his chest that intensified every time he thought about his ill fated verbal spar with a man who could, if Vegeta would admit it to himself, almost be considered a father-figure.

But it did little to assuage the irrational sense of grief that came from the loss of his afternoon with Bulma, or the sense of impending doom that bubbled in the pit of his stomach.

\--------

“There he is. My handsome Prince.”

The Namek was smaller than Vegeta remembered, the interior various shades of greens and blue that hardly screamed 'jazz' in his opinion. Then again, his opinion wasn't really worth shit.

Frieza, dressed in his usual white and lilac, reclined in a plush leather recliner, Nappa waiting dutifully at his side, Zarbon and Dodoria for once curiously absent. The family of three adults that had greeted Vegeta on their last visit were gathered opposite, looking far less prepared and significantly more uncomfortable than they had done at the beginning of their initial meeting. As if this had been sprung upon them unexpectedly. And, knowing Frieza, there was probably some truth in that assumption.

The old man had been squashed into a wheelchair and he looked like shit. His breathing was laboured, rasping heavily and wetly, and he could barely keep his eyes open. He even looked as though he'd lost weight, skin hanging loosely from his jowls, the veins on his hands more prominent. The younger men stood either side of him, Nail glancing nervously between Raditz and Vegeta, while Piccolo's face was a stoic mask of indifference. Both men were clearly wound tightly, their muscles bunched and ready to spring into action should the situation call for it. Yet Vegeta failed to see the urgency in the situation. Usually when he was summoned on such short notice it was to handle a situation that was grossly out of control. More often or not just the presence of 'The Prince' was enough to cause whoever was causing the issue to shit their pants and become far more compliant. And, if that wasn't enough, the ceaseless barrage of Vegeta's fists against their cracking bones would certainly settle things. But there seemed to be no cause for alarm, certainly not enough for Raspberry to disturb him on his day off claiming Lord Frieza desperately required his assistance.

He quirked a brow at Raditz who merely shrugged in response, clearly as out of the loop as Vegeta was. He dared to glance at Nappa, but his former caregiver was staring straight ahead, his mouth set in a hard, grim line, his broad shoulders trembling from the stress of the situation. Nappa was hardly accustomed to being Frieza's personal bodyguard – he was an underling, plain and simple. He had his uses, the sheer force of his brute strength proving him to be very useful in their business, but he lacked the ability to lead, to take charge. He fell under Vegeta's command when the latter was little more than a boy because he simply failed to function without command. So to take up the mantle of Frieza's personal protection, an honour Nappa had never once been graced with in the seventeen years Vegeta had been under the Colds' thumb, and a duty that usually exclusively belonged to Zarbon or Dodoria, felt awkward and out of place. Suspicion coursed through Vegeta's veins, and he had a sinking feeling that the Saiyans had been called not out of necessity, but malice.

Perhaps as a form of further punishment for Vegeta's run-in with the Usagi. Perhaps just for Frieza's entertainment, it was hard to tell.

“Now that we're all here, let's talk business, shall we?” Frieza began, rising from his chair and taking a step towards the old man and his sons. “It would seem we're at an impasse of sorts, wouldn't it? You refuse to sell me your little business despite my more than generous offer, and yet you lack the funds to pay off the debts you owe.

“We don't have the money _yet._ We weren't expecting you for another two weeks,” Nail replied, tilting his chin up in a mock defiance. It was all for show, he was sorely outmatched and he knew it, but Vegeta couldn't help but admire the kid's guts. “You agreed to an extra month, _with_ interest, and we agreed to pay it.”

“Indeed I did my boy. Munificence is one of my greatest qualities. Which is why we find ourselves yet again in your fine establishment,” Frieza grinned. “I have a proposition that will prove more than beneficial to us all. I am willing to wipe off your debt. Completely and totally. You and your family get to keep this _bar_ without any further interference from my men and I, and we go our separate ways.”

“Just like that?” Nail asked. Though the scepticism was evident, there was an underlying tone of hope in the man's voice, and Vegeta audibly scoffed. The dumb bastard actually entertained the idea that _Frieza_ would show a semblance of compassion. Fucking _moron._

“Ho, ho, ho, well of course not 'just like that,” Frieza said, his voice syrupy with an amusement that curdled Vegeta's stomach. “No doubt word of my largesse has proceeded me, but it's poor business practice to simply give something away without receiving anything in exchange. I'll need _some_ sort of indemnity for loss of earnings. Quid pro quo, if you will.”

“And what exactly do you want from us in return?” Piccolo interjected, folding his arms across his broad chest. Unlike Nail, whose voice wavered with uncertainty, Piccolo oozed confidence and control. His demeanour substantiated years of self-discipline, and his eyes betrayed nothing but a resolution to remain firm with his own desires. He would blend in well amongst the Colds' empire, if given the chance, and Vegeta would definitely replace either of his fellow Saiyans with Piccolo if presented with the opportunity.

“Oh, nothing much,” Frieza said caustically, a malicious smirk pulling at one side of his face. The nagging feeling that had plagued Vegeta since his arrival at 'The Namek' intensified tenfold. “I want the boy.”

All eyes in the room locked onto the lizard, various degrees of horror etching ever face. Nappa and Raditz exchanged a look, the former suddenly extraordinarily pale, Guru hacked and wheezed pathetically, and his two sons looked momentarily panic stricken. Even Vegeta felt his own jaw fall open in shock, a maelstrom of emotions rushing through him all at once, ranging from simple confusion to vitriolic disgust. The silence that reigned in wake of that particular bombshell was heavy, a sudden increase in gravity that threatened to push the occupants of the bar to their knees.

A silence that Frieza was not taking well.

“I'm sorry, it seems I was being unclear. The snivelling little brat who accompanied you during our last business meeting. I _want_ him,” Frieza snapped when no-one dared to reply, his patience thinning. His jaw popped as he spoke, his thin, dark lips curled up in a snarl, and he had to run a hand through his pale, limp hair to steady himself.

It was Guru who finally answered him, struggling to push himself out of his chair and failing miserably. “No! He's just a child!”

“Come on now, don't be absurd. Young Vegeta here was no older than your boy when I graciously took him under my wing. I've been nothing but a loving, accommodating father. Of course, I can be stern when wayward brats are in need of punishing, but I have provided him with a far better life than anything his miserable father could have provided for him. Wouldn't you agree, Prince?”

_That's_ why Frieza had dragged Vegeta along. The goddamn bastard.

Vegeta said nothing, opting to press his mouth into a hard line to prevent him from saying or doing something he would live (or, more likely, die) to regret. Anger flared and boiled within him, licking at the confines of his bones and skin, begging for him to pummel his fists into Frieza's face until he was little more than a bloody, twitching pulp. Self preservation swallowed down the desire, keeping it quelled and at bay until he could take it out on something or someone else later. Was this how the deal with his father had gone down? Did Frieza just so easily breeze the suggestion in the hope that Vegeta's father would be compliant?

_I **own** you now, boy._

Guru and Nail had turned to face him, and the way their conjoined gaze lingered on the exposed flesh of his neck and arms, following scar after jagged scar, told him they were looking – _really_ looking – at him for the first time. He wasn't just one of Frieza's goons. Wasn't just the man who had viciously beaten them weeks earlier.

They were staring at the war ravaged fate of their child, should they comply, and they didn't like what they saw.

“No deal,” Piccolo said sharply. His eyes had never left Frieza's, and Vegeta had to admire the colossal set of balls the other man must posses to stare so unflinchingly into the face of pure evil.

“I consider myself a reasonable man. Hand over your runt of a boy and all of this messy debt business will be forgotten. Call him a long term investment. If he is anything like his siblings he'll do very well within my prestigious company when he's of an appropriate age. Perhaps I'll give him to Zarbon as a pet project. His training methods are unconventional,” Frieza's gaze swivelled over to Vegeta, a malicious grin widening. “But efficient.”

“He said no,” Nail added, stepping forward to stand between Frieza and his two companions. His fists were balled at his sides, and Vegeta dropped his stance in preparation for a brawl. In his peripheral vision he caught Raditz adopting a similar position, and Vegeta's skin began to prickle in anticipation. Frieza, however, seemed to have other ideas. His outstretched hand silently ordered his men to stand down, dark, beady eyes aglow with the promise of something far more unpleasant than a simple beating.

“Well, well, well. This _is_ a disappointment. And I was so sure we'd be able to resolve this matter with grace and dignity. Pity. Just for your insolence, I'll be sure to introduce the brat to Dodoria. It's been so long since he has had a little one to play with. I try to refrain from such interactions, you see. He has a tendency to get a tad overexcited, and is so prone to breaking small, delicate objects.”

“You unimaginable bastard,” Nail spat. Vegeta silently echoed the sentiment, and as much as he itched for the fight, a part of him wished he were stood on the other side.

“My dear boy, is there any need for name calling? I've been incredibly hospitable. However, that is prone to change should you continue to provoke me, and believe me – you don't want to see my unpleasant side.”

“Do your worst,” Nail seethed, and when he edged towards Frieza the crime lord once again motioned for his men to stand down. Guru was pleading with his son, but with little effect, hysteria rising in the old man's voice, while Piccolo barked commands at Nail to retreat. The whole room seemed abuzz with a variety of noises that made Vegeta's head swim, and he was finding it hard to concentrate on what was going on. He was overwrought with sensations and sounds, overstimulated and feeling as though the world might collapse from under his feet at any given moment.

The world was still spinning faster than Vegeta would like when the younger of the two brothers took another few steps forward, and when Nail's hands balled into fists that were swung in Frieza's direction, cutting through the whirling chaos of Vegeta's mind, he knew that Nail had just signed his death certificate.

Before anyone else could react Frieza's hand disappeared into his blazer before remerging with his customized Glock 23, the 'Supernova', as he insisted on calling it, and the following shot that echoed around the room shocked no one. Nail stood and swayed for a moment, the hole between his eyes oozing the same scarlet that peppered the wall behind him, and when his body finally fell it landed with a heavy, wet _thunk_ that made most of the occupants of the room wince. The wail that followed was haunting, an agonised keen that ripped forth from the chest of Guru; an unimaginable howl of anguish eerily haunting the walls of The Namek, breaking off into choked sobs and haggard, struggling breaths.

“Raditz, clean up,” Frieza snarled, sneering down at a spot of blood on his white suede shoes with a look of utter revulsion. “I believe the security footage is accessible through the upstairs office.”

Raditz hesitated, his focus lingering on the body on the floor and the rapidly growing pool of blood that surrounded it. Then he stiffened and nodded, heading upstairs without any resistance; it wasn't his first body, nor would it be his last.

“Vegeta,” Frieza continued, seizing a handkerchief from his pocket and bending to wipe at the stain. He seemed to pay no mind to the dead man lay at his feet, nor the grieving family in front of him. “Retrieve the brat.”

Abnegation was futile, the body on the floor as much a reminder to Frieza's own men as the inhabitants of The Namek as to what happened if you angered the tyrant. Fighting back the bile rising in his throat, Vegeta nodded and tried to placate himself with the image of Frieza's neck, broken by his hand, as he pushed his way through the back rooms of the bar.

\--------

It had taken all of five minutes to find the boy.

The kid was trembling, eyes wide with fear and snot dripping from his nose, tucked under a table and clutching a teddybear tight to his chest. He had pissed himself, either sometime shortly before or as a result of the gunshot, his little tunic sticking damply to his body. He probably had no idea that one of his brothers lay

He wouldn't last long in the Frieza Force.

A montage of memories auto-played in Vegeta's mind, and he knew – he fucking _knew –_ that this kid would be subjected to every single one of those torture techniques and more. He had only been picked because he'd be brave, at least that was the feeble excuse his father had fed him. This kid didn't have a hope in hell in surviving, was far too soft and innocent, and he'd likely be dead within six months. _Fuck._ Vegeta would probably be the one to kill him, put him down and out of his misery before things got too bad and he _couldn't_ let that happen.

Killing meant they had something on you, made it harder to escape. Hard evidence that could accidentally fall into the cops' hands if you turned your back on back on Frieza and tried to break free. He'd wanted to wait, wanted to make Frieza his first. Really savour it. But he knew he'd murder the child in front of him in a heartbeat if he had to drag the kid back with him. He'd likely play it off as an accident. Offer to toughen up the kid up and make it look like he'd pushed him too far, miscalculated what the kid could take.

He'd get punished for it, probably pretty badly, but Vegeta wasn't cruel enough to let a child live in that world.

He had done so many terrible, awful things in his life time. Almost all of them without regret, and a decent percentage of which he actually _enjoyed._ But he couldn't subject a new kid to that. He _wouldn't_. Vegeta wanted to take down The Colds, not bolster their numbers and become complacent in a new generation of fucked up individuals. Vegeta thought of Bulma and Raditz's nephew, a small part of him (lacking all logic and reasoning) wishing that she could be here right now to take this little brat away and protect him. Kids seemed to like her. Hell, _he_ liked her, and he didn't like anyone. The two little runts could be friends and maybe Kakarot or Goku or whatever the fuck his name was could take care of one more kid until things cooled down. They were young, but experienced in child rearing, and being raised by a man-child and his overbearing wife had to be better than living in fear of Frieza's shadow.

Vegeta frowned at himself. Since when had he become such an idealistic sap?

“Keep quiet kid, and listen to me what I'm saying if you want to get out of here alive. They want to take you with them, and believe me, you don't want to let that happen. Think of somewhere safe, somewhere you can go where these assholes won't find you, and keep running in that direction. Make sure no-one sees you, and lay low until this all blows over.”

The child nodded once, raising to shaky legs. “Thank you, sir.” The boy twiddled his thumbs, as if debating his next words. “My name is Dende.”

“Tch. It won't matter what your name is if they catch you. Now just fucking go,” Vegeta bit out harshly. The kid – Dende – retreated towards the back door, slipping out. Before he had fully exited Vegeta cleared his throat. “If you get caught you won't get a second chance, and I'll drag you in kicking and screaming myself.”

Dende looked back at Vegeta, his expression oddly solicitous for a child being threatened. “Yes sir.”

Saving those too weak to even try to save themselves was becoming a bad fucking habit, one Vegeta would have to break if he wanted to stay alive.

When the child was gone Vegeta went to work ransacking the back rooms, tipping tables and opening cupboards and closets – any place that might be big enough to harbour a small person. He broke and destroyed things as he went, taking some pleasure in the act, enough to compensate for the lack of fight and Frieza's game, and when a reasonable amount of time had passed for authenticities sake, as well as to give the boy a decent head start, Vegeta steadied himself with a deep breath and headed back towards Frieza and the others.

Nail's body had been moved, most of the blood cleaned up, the dark, damp smear on the floor the only remaining proof that a man had lost his life today, and Raditz held a broken hard-drive in his hand that Vegeta assumed at one point worked as functional storage for the surveillance footage. The surviving brother was hunched near his still-sobbing father, whispering something so quietly to the old man that it was beyond Vegeta's detection.

All eyes fixated on him when he made his presence known, searching for the absent child. As if already clued in on what had just transpired, Piccolo looked at Vegeta, and the small nod the other man threw his way was almost completely indiscernible.

“No sign of the boy, Lord Frieza. He must have escaped before our arrival.”

Frieza, on the other hand, looked furious. “You stupid little _monkey_.”

The palm that cracked across Vegeta's face struck him with more force than should logically be possible for someone of Frieza's stature. It burned, and for a sickening minute Vegeta was sure that his cheekbone had cracked and broken under the pressure. Before Vegeta could react to the initial blow Frieza's hands were coiled about his throat, crushing his windpipe as fingernails clawed at abused flesh.

“Outsmarted by a fucking child. I present you with the simplest job imaginable and you still find new ways to disappoint me.”

He knew better than to try and claw Frieza's hands off, but his face was beginning to turn a hideous shade of purple and his lungs were ablaze in agony. Vegeta tried to formulate some sort of escape plan, but his heart beat clapped thunderously in his ears, bolts of lightning striking behind his eyes and increasing the pressure building in his skull. Any thoughts that weren't preoccupied with oxygen starvation were dedicated to ensuring that the mask never slipped, even now; ensuring Frieza never got the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

The starbursts that were blinding Vegeta were giving way to a dark vignette, and he tried to maintain his grip on consciousness – on life – as long as possible. He didn't want to die in some shitty jazz bar because of a goddamn kid. Not before he could exact his revenge. Not before he could see every fucker who had ever did him wrong burn and smoulder.

“You are a _failure,_ just like your pathetic father. Incapable of abiding by simple instructions, making mistakes that end up costing _me_. After everything I have done for you Vegeta, and you can't even do your job. Weak, disgusting, pitiful fool...”  


_I want my mother. I want Tarble. I never got to say goodbye._  
That's life, kid. Suck it up.  
I wonder if they miss me? They probably don't even care...

The hands around his throat tightened, and Vegeta was certain that Frieza was going to snap his neck before he suffocated. Despite the pain, despite the certainty of his demise, a smear of blue staining his wrist caught his attention. Fuck, he hoped Raditz wouldn't run his mouth to Bulma about what happened here. What was it that she had said? That she'd never heard him laugh before? He honestly couldn't remember the last time he laughed either, not a sincere one that came from something other than mocking someone else, anyway. He could vaguely recall laughing with his mother and brother when he was a kid, but the memories were old and hazy, and so detached from who and what he was now that they may as well have happened to someone else. But Bulma had made him laugh, trying to fight and claw at him with her meagre strength, turning a chore into something actually _enjoyable_ , if not unproductive. Perhaps it wouldn't be too awful to die today. His life had been so fucking miserable that ending it with a small glimpse of normalcy and happiness would be fitting.

“Sir, you're going to kill him!”

Nappa's voice was pained, frantic with worry, and if Vegeta were capable he'd have shot him a death glare that could have stripped flesh from bone. Nappa's concern would only serve to egg Frieza on; to make Vegeta an even bigger target. The fact that Nappa, a man who had been in the game since long before Vegeta was even born, was moronic enough to not know better was astounding. Still, despite the odds this seemed to stir something within Frieza and his grip on Vegeta's throat loosened until Vegeta fell to the ground limply, gasping for air and nursing his bruised skin. Every breath was agonising, a flurry of coughs and strangled wheezes that tore through his crushed windpipe with a desperation that did more harm than good.

“You okay, kid?”

Nappa's hands were on his shoulders, embracing him awkwardly and trying to levy Vegeta to his feet, babbling inane nonsense that was _supposed_ to be comforting but did little more than infuriate Vegeta further. Despite the pain Vegeta snarled at his companion, shucking Nappa off of him, and staggered to stand on his own two feet unaided.

Frieza's small, dark eyes were pinpricks fixed solely on him, the weight of his hatred eclipsing that of a planet's and pressing down on Vegeta's chest. Frieza had regained his composure, no longer overrun by emotion, but it wasn't snuffed out. It merely gurgled beneath the surface, like a volcano between eruptions, and it wouldn't be long before he would blow again. Vegeta didn't want to be caught in the path of destruction for a second time.

“Apologies, Lord Frieza,” Vegeta husked out, his voice cracked and barely audible. It stung to speak, but the words wounded his pride more. Still, he wanted to live, at least a few months longer, and that meant playing nice. “There is no excuse for failing you.”

“See to it that you do not disappoint me again, Vegeta. Nepotism and cronyism are capricious beasts,” Frieza said before he turned his attention to Piccolo and Guru, the latter still clutching his chest and weeping over the death of his son. In all the commotion, Vegeta hadn't noticed the way the old man's skin had turned an ashy grey, sweat gathering on his round face. He looked as fucked up as Vegeta felt, if not more so. “Might I suggest you get him to a hospital. I do believe he's having a heart attack. I would be quick about it, my hospitality, much like my patience, is wearing thin.”

\--------

Making the crime scene look like a robbery gone wrong had been incredibly easy.

Frieza had enough pull with the police department that going to any lengths to cover up the crime really shouldn't have been necessary, but it was better to cover all of their bases just in case, so the last several hours had been dedicated to fabricating a whole new crime scene under Frieza's scrutiny. Raiding the safe had been a way of paying reparations, apparently, and convincingly annihilating the place had served as a convenient outlet for Vegeta's pent up aggression. By the time they had finished, Piccolo and Guru long since gone, begrudgingly abandoning the body of their loved one to pursue medical attention for the father – a point which actually worked in Frieza's favour, making the murder-robbery look as though it occurred as a consequence of being under-staffed – the sun had already long since set; the sky as miserable and dark as Vegeta's mood.

Zarbon was waiting with a car, using his phone as a visual aid to preen his hair with. As usual he was overdressed – silks and cashmere and Italian leather, his hair braided loosely over one shoulder. He looked absolutely delighted when he spotted Vegeta and his impressive bruising, the corner of his lips twisted upwards in a parody of a grin.

“Zarbon, take me home. I've faced enough idiocy and incompetence for one evening,” Frieza said, pausing at he passed Vegeta and the two others. “I would suggest a change in profession if you're so easily evaded by children. Though be warned, if you aren't able to carry out your work nor pay me what is owed, we may have to repeat the events of this afternoon but with a whole new cast. And that would be an awful shame, wouldn't it?”

“Yes, Lord Frieza,” Vegeta replied tightly. His skull pounded, the initial blow from Frieza having had a much more damaging, long term effect than the throttling. Even trying to talk ignited new aches and pains that darted from just below his eye all the way to the underside of his jaw. His vision was still blurred on the offending side, either from the pain itself or as a consequence of some sort of internal damage he didn't yet know about, Vegeta couldn't decide. He just knew it was going to leave one hell of a mark.

And then Frieza was gone; off into the car, and then into the night, undoubtedly stewing over Vegeta's failings. When they were sure the crime lord wouldn't be returning the three of them let out a collective sigh of relief, their exhausted bodies sagging in unison.

“Shit,” Raditz hissed under his breath. “Shit, shit, shit, _shit_. I thought you were... he was going to...” He looked pale, washed out under an unmanaged mass of dark, wiry hair. He kept shooting Vegeta pained, anxious glances. “Are you okay, 'Getes?”

“C'mon Vegeta, let me have a look at you,” Nappa said, brutishly pushing Raditz aside to get a better look at Vegeta.

“I'm fine, you interfering oaf. Leave me alone,” Vegeta snapped. He was fed up of them, fed up of their pity. Of their incessant noise.

“We should get you back to the office. Appule'll take a look at ya.”

“No.”

“Vegeta, I really think we should –”

“I said _no._ I just want to go to bed.” It wasn't a lie for bravado's sake. He was honestly exhausted, and if he was able to snatch just a few hours of rest it would stave off the throbbing of his face for a short period of time, at least. He'd deal with potential long-term damage and subject himself to a medical with Appule in the morning if necessary, but for now he wanted only his bed and the few hollow hours of respite it could offer him.

“Sure, kid. Just let me...” Nappa trailed off, digging a Kleenex out of his pocket and wiping at Vegeta's nose. When he spotted red staining the tissue he frowned and brought his fingers up to his nostrils, surprised to find them suddenly tacky and warm. He hadn't even realised he'd been bleeding. When he didn't openly berate Nappa for doing so, the bald giant continued cleaning the blood off of Vegeta's face, much in the same way he'd done when Vegeta was only a child. “There ya go. Good as new.”

He didn't thank Nappa, probably never had in all the years he'd known him. But he also didn't chew Nappa out or push him away, which was practically the same thing. He did, however, let Raditz drive him most of the way home on the condition they make a quick pit stop on the way.

\--------

“Bulma?”

Silence echoed back a reply as Vegeta put the fresh carton of milk in the fridge, packing it and a few other bits away from the grocery bag he was carrying. His face no longer throbbed quite so intensely, the half pack of Tylenol he'd chewed down in the supermarket parking lot having worked small wonders. Raditz had initially been reluctant to go on an impromptu shopping trip, arguing that if Vegeta wasn't going to seek medical attention for his injuries he should, at the very least, crawl straight into his pit and sleep off the worst of the damage. A few incredibly thinly veiled threats and the mention that a certain blue-haired beauty was in need of essentials was enough to persuade Raditz to tag a long, and they'd sped up and down the aisles with record-breaking precision and speed.

It wasn't actually _terrible,_ having Raditz around.

His hands had started shaking uncontrollably half-way through, a wild rush of panic pulsating through his veins, and Raditz had actually attempted to soothe Vegeta by hitting on every woman who passed them by, his attempts at pick-up lines as pathetic as they were desperate. It had worked as a distraction, albeit an incredibly transparent one, and by the time they reached the check-out the shock that had threatened to seize and overwhelm Vegeta had dissipated into the night.

When Raditz had _kindly_ attempted to invite himself into the apartment Vegeta had intervened with a firm 'no', leaving the latter alone in his own home, wondering where the fuck his mysteriously absent roommate was.

The lights were still on and it wasn't _that_ late; earlier than most of his other working days. He'd caught her up later than this countless times with a shitty, often up waiting for him though he never understood _why, a_ 'true life' movie playing on the TV; Bulma utterly engrossed in the bullshit as though it was an Oscar winning classic. She spent a lot of time watching Lifetime movies for someone who claimed she wanted to be a serious actress. Vegeta couldn't say much, however, as he'd taken to joining her on the sofa whenever he had some time to himself, just so he could viciously mock the insane plots and the absurdity of it all. He didn't hate the way that she laughed at his scathing commentary, or the way that they'd get carried away with their ridiculous, made-up backstories they'd heatedly establish for the characters. Vegeta half expected to find her lounging on the couch, remote in hand and bullshit on screen, but the living room was empty, the remote still in the same spot on the coffee table that it had occupied before he'd left.

He frowned to himself, oddly vexed by her absence, a dawning sense of dread seeping through his bones. Frieza had every reason to punish Vegeta beyond that of attempted murder. Vegeta had witnessed his boss disembowel his other stooges for less, so it stood to reason that he may break into Vegeta's apartment and take his revenge via the young girl he found living there.

Fuck.

“Bulma?” Vegeta called again, his agitation mounting. He stalked down the hallway towards their bedrooms, hoping that she'd decided to call it a night, or he'd find a note pinned to her door informing that she'd gone out for the evening or had a guy over or _something_. He couldn't shake the feeling that Frieza was somehow responsible for her out of character silence, that she was paying for the 'crime' he had committed earlier in the evening.

And then he spotted it; an ugly corpse mangled beyond repair, looking hopeless and utterly broken in the hallway that conjoined their rooms.

His door was a freshly painted baby pink, the word 'BADMAN' lacquered in black and white in big, bold letters. It was hideous, the dictionary definition of garish, and it was so utterly offensive to the eye than he almost wished Frieza's attack had blinded him just so he wouldn't be forced to look at it.

That goddamn _bitch_. No wonder she was hiding.

Vegeta stared at the door with open-mouthed horror, his insides twisting. He'd been reluctant enough to paint his room in the first place, thinking of the unnecessary financial costs that only that served to slow his race to freedom. But he had to do _something_ to make the room his, to make it less... awful, so he'd sucked it up and allowed himself one small luxury. And now that _fucking cow_ had defiled his door, and he either had to spend even _more_ money, or learn to put up with it. How the fuck was he supposed to bring a girl home with this shit on his door? She'd laugh her way out of the apartment in seconds. Then again, when was the last time he brought a girl back to his place? He either paid for his girls in one of Frieza's places, in which case he had access to the private rooms, or he lost himself in some girl in a dingy alleyway or bar bathroom and that was that. Still, any hypothetical girl that he might hypothetically bring home would never take him seriously, much less take him to bed, when they saw the abomination that was his poor, bastardised door. Enraged, Vegeta threw the door open, anticipating an equally awful interior, his imagination running riot with visions of ugly clashes of pinks and yellows.

If Frieza hadn't kidnapped and tortured Bulma, Vegeta might.

Vegeta's breath hitched in his throat as his eyes roamed the scene before him, caught off guard by the _perfection_ of it all, his anger immediately dying in his throat.

His room was finished; dark, deep blue walls accented with a white and gold trim. It looked polished, professional, and incredibly _regal_. A far cry from the half-assed 'anything's better than pink' job he'd been doing before he'd left. She'd even unwrapped everything for him, his meagre collection of belongings returned to their original state with care and precision. Which was when Vegeta noticed he was not alone in his room. Bulma was curled up in the centre of his bed, her breathing low and steady. Dark blue smudges caressed her cheek and caught in her hair, the smear on her throat still visible from their earlier play fight, though she'd changed out of her dirtied clothes and into a pair of cotton sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Why she hadn't bothered showering was beyond Vegeta's comprehension, but he quite liked the way she looked, bruised in her own way by his hand, and the feelings of warmth it stirred within him.

He took a tentative step towards her, still overwhelmed by the four walls surrounding him, his heart hammering in his chest. She slept on peacefully, worn out by her hard work, the steady rise and fall of her chest tugging at Vegeta and making his fingertips twitch. All thoughts of Frieza and the door fluttered away, carried into oblivion till all that remained were the two creatures residing in the room. Yet again he found himself lost in her, not sure how to process and respond to her kindness, to her raw vulnerability, to the way she continuously caught him off guard and forced him to take notice of her. He didn't know the word for this emotion, his limited vocabulary when it came to pleasantries unable to formulate a sentence to properly express what he was feeling.

So Vegeta did the only thing he could think to do.

He bent down and scooped her up as gently as he could manage, cradling in his arms and pressing her tight to his chest. She weighed next to nothing, as delicate and light as a flower petal caught in the breeze, her flesh soft and pliant beneath his hands. Bulma stirred a little, but didn't wake, burying herself into the heat of Vegeta's body and smiling to herself. For his own sake as well as hers, Vegeta pointedly ignored the glaring, pink wood as he made his way to her room, ignoring the way his heart continued to rabbit in his chest, and his body tingled at the points of contact with hers.

He had set her on her bed, fumbling awkwardly with the covers in attempt to tuck her in, when he heard her yawn. Vegeta cringed as her eyelashes fluttered, her foggy gaze travelling around the room before alighting on him. “Vegeta? Did you carry me?” Bulma asked, her speech thick and slurred, rubbing at her sleep-sticky eyes with the heel of her palm.

“Yes.”

Bulma smiled to herself, apparently pleased with the answer. “What a guy.”

She almost slipped back into slumber - almost drifted back off into whatever dream paradise she had conjured for herself – when her weary gaze flickered over his face and her brows knit together in a frown. With a stifled yawn Bulma pushed herself up, one her hands floating up to caress his face, fingers ghosting over the bruise on his cheek bone before slipping down and over the fingerprints on his throat. “You're hurt,” she said quietly.

“It's nothing.”

“You're a terrible liar, Vegeta,” Bulma lifted herself off of the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She looked at him with something so intense and indecipherable in those deep blue eyes that it physically hurt to meet her gaze. She parted his lips as if she wanted to speak, before deciding against it, mouth closing. Bulma seemed to falter slightly, as if she was struggling to decide what she should do, before simply patting Vegeta's arm gently “Wait here.”

She rose to her feet, stretching and popping her limbs as she did so, before retreating from her room. Vegeta watched her go, listening to the soft pad of her bare feet on the wooden floor of their apartment; sat on the corner of her bed obediently, glancing about her room as if he hadn't already gone snooping through her belongings once before. There was a pile of paper on the floor beside his feet, printed listings of various auditions ranging from non-speaking walk-ons to staring roles. Several of the ads were highlighted, curly, feminine handwriting providing annotations besides gigs Bulma clearly had an interest in. To his dismay he found her notes to be mostly concerning doubts and her own potential failings; written warnings to herself that spoke of not being pretty enough, or experienced enough. Vegeta couldn't help but wonder if her latest rejection had wounded her confidence more than Bulma had let on, and the thought left him feeling uncharacteristically helpless. In an attempt to save himself from whatever it was that was creeping through his veins Vegeta kicked at the papers and watched them scatter.

Bulma returned several minutes later carrying two Cup Noodles in her hands and a cloth cosmetics bag between her teeth. She set the food down on her cluttered dresser, the rising steam indicating that they were far too hot for immediate consumption anyway, and set the bag down next to Vegeta. Then she smiled, nudging his thighs apart with her hands and settling between them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Vegeta asked, suddenly feeling incredibly alarmed and uncomfortable. She didn't answer him right away, instead fishing through the bag for a tube of ointment, fishing it out with a quiet ' _aha!'._ She unscrewed the cap from the tube of _Arnicare,_ scanning the ingredients list quickly before turning her attention back to him.

“This will help with the bruising,” she said as she squeezed a bead of cream onto her fingers.

It was cold and Vegeta hissed through his teeth, unable to secure the sound before it escaped. She winced at him in apology, retracting her hand to blow on her fingers before returning to finish the job. Her touch was gentle, applying just enough pressure to ease the ointment into his skin, but light enough to avoid bringing forth a fresh flare of pain. She was far more thorough and efficient than Nappa had ever been in his patch-up attempts, laking the brutish clumsiness that made his clean up efforts feel like torture in and of themselves. She started with his cheek, inflamed and rapidly darkening, her lips pursing as she dabbed gingerly at the spot. He was sure at this point that nothing was broken, but the bone still felt like cracked glass beneath tightly stretched skin. He'd be sporting a black eye for weeks, and god only knew how long it would take for the throbbing of his face to cease.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

' _Well you see Bulma, after aiding and abetting in the murder of a guy just trying to protect his family, a guy I've already previously beaten half to death, I was ordered to kidnap a child so it could be abused for the next eighteen years of its life. When I said no my boss decided to try and kill me too.'_ Somehow he didn't see the truth going down very well with her.

“No.”

He could tell she was unsatisfied with his answer and desperate to probe further, but she held her tongue and for that Vegeta was grateful. In a fluid motion Bulma's hands swept downwards onto his throat, gently massaging the area before she had to pause and collect more ointment. Vegeta felt his face get hot at the touch, as though little sparks leapt between her skin and his own, her proximity overwhelming. He dared to look at he face again and his stomach rolled when he saw it crumple and twist in concern, her lower lip trembling and the flush of her cheeks replaced with a pale, sickly complexion. Her impossibly blue eyes were wide, swimming with what appeared to be unshed tears, fixed intently on Vegeta's face as she searched his own eyes for some sort of reassurance. Her honest naivety made her look incredibly fragile and beautiful, and Vegeta had to swallow back the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. He could see the cogs being dusted off and beginning to turn in her head, she was intelligent enough to imagine the possibilities, and Vegeta briefly wondered if it would be kinder to just put her out of her misery and just be honest.

That fucking boy, Dende. Vegeta dared to hope that the brat was okay, that he'd followed Vegeta's instruction and found himself secure to lay low. That Vegeta hadn't endured strangulation for nothing, that he'd actually done something _decent_ for once in his life, something that could make someone like Bulma proud of him. He wanted to tell her about the boy, wanted to offer her his guts, share his problems, just like she had all those nights ago. Wanted her to hold his hand and tell him it was okay as they swigged beer and shared smokes.

But he knew that would only drag up a new set of problems that would likely result in her worrying endlessly about both him and Raditz every time they went into work, and she'd probably get Raditz's oaf of a brother involved at some point. Having the former-heiress of the world's biggest tech company roll up to the office one day demanding increased rights and safety provisions for the Saiyan faction of the Frieza Force would cause far more harm than good, and put a massive target on Bulma's head. So Vegeta said nothing, twisting his head to the side to avoid her scrutiny and the pull of her gaze.

“Did you get into a fight?” She pressed, still working the cream into his skin.

“No.”

“Were you mugged?”

Vegeta scoffed, offended that Bulma actually entertained the idea that _he_ would fall victim to something like a _mugging_. “No.”

“You're really not going to tell me?”

“Drop it, Bulma.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Trouble has a way of finding you, huh Bad Man?”

Her nickname for his vomited up another unpleasant memory, and Vegeta's eyes pulled together in an accusatory frown. “That reminds me, what the fuck did you do to my door?”

“So you saw that,” Bulma said, “I couldn't help myself.”

“How could I not see it? It's a giant pink cock block.”

“Cock block? Is there something you're not telling me?” Bulma asked, grinning salaciously. “Oh. My. God. Do you have a _girlfriend?_ ”

Vegeta blanched, appalled and humiliated by the accusation. He'd never even been on a date, much less involved in an actual relationship, and the women that he had fucked weren't exactly commitment material. Not that Vegeta had much interest in that, of course. “ _No._ ”

She laughed to herself and retreated from her place between Vegeta's thighs, tucking the tube of _Arnicare_ back into the cosmetics bag and retrieving the food from the dresser. Bulma handed him one of the Cup Noodles, plopping herself next to to Vegeta and nudging closer until their arms touched.

“You finished painting my room,” Vegeta said after a moment, eying her warily and trying to gage her reaction.

“Yeah, I thought you'd like it.”

“Hn.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Like it?”

Vegeta swallowed his mouthful and smirked to himself. If she was gunning for a thank you she would be sorely let down. “It's... okay.”

Bulma grinned, apparently more than satisfied with his answer. “Good.” They ate side by side in comfortable silence, the sounds of their chewing far more pleasant than the sounds of children crying and the metallic echo of gunfire and mourning parents. “You should sleep in here tonight.”

“W-wait, _what?_ ” Vegeta was sure he'd misheard her, perhaps even imagined it.

“Sleep in my room tonight,” Bulma said again, scraping her fork along the bottom of the cup noisily to scoop up the last of the noodles.

“And where will _you_ sleep?”

“Here,” Bulma said, patting the space next to her. “It's fine, I used to share a bed with Goku all the time. Well, until he and Chi Chi got serious. In fact I've shared a bed with most of my guy friends, and half of them have seen me naked. We'd go camping a lot, and it was just one of those necessary things. It's safer to pee and change in front of your friends than it is to wander off and get yourself lost or eaten by wild animals for the sake of modesty. It's no big deal. At one point Goku and I shared a bed for at least a month while we stayed in one of dad's log cabins.”

Vegeta swallowed thickly, “Oh...and Raditz?” Fuck, he wasn't sure why he'd asked that. It had just been the first thing to spring to mind.

Bulma seemed equally as confused by the question, her eyebrows knitting together in a half-hearted frown. “Well no, not Raditz. He was a few years older than us so that would have been weird.”

“Hn.”

“Come on, you'll get sick from the paint fumes if you spend all night in your room.”

As if huffing a little paint was the worst thing Vegeta had done. He looked at her, pained, arguing with himself. “I'll sleep on the couch.”

“No way, you'll give yourself a bad back doing that. Don't be a prude, just come sleep with me. It's a double so you'll have your own space, and I'm so tiny anyway you won't even notice I'm there,” Bulma put the remains of the Cup Noodle on her bedside table, and placed her newly free hand on Vegeta's thigh. “Besides, I promise I won't seduce you.”

_Bitch_.

She was teasing him, as per-fucking-usual. God damn, mother-fucking bitch. “You were sleeping on my bed when I came home,” he pointed out, sounding a little _too_ childish for his liking.

“Yeah, well I don't look like shit, and I spent my entire life working with hazardous materials. I'm immune.”

“Tch.”

“C'mon, work with me here. I'm going to be up all night worrying about you if you go in there all beat up like that and inhaling potentially dangerous chemicals.”

If she were anyone else Vegeta would have torn her apart for insinuating the had any weakness that concern. But she wasn't anyone else, she was _Bulma,_ and she had cared for him when no-one else had. She did have a point. His room reeked, and he'd rather not have to deal with Frieza's bullshit in the morning sporting a pounding headache, and the sofa was old and lumpy. He ached enough as it was. Vegeta was a grown man, God dammit, he could handle sleeping next to a girl without losing his mind, right?

“Bulma...” He was tired. Achingly so. His face was beginning to hurt again, the painkillers wearing off, and now he was full he could barely keep his eyes open. He knew protesting was pointless. Bulma would get her way one way or another, and he wasn't sure if he had the energy left to continue to battle her. He brought his hand up and rubbed at his throat, slick with the ointment, swelling from the assault. “Okay.”

Bulma perked up, a small, tentative smile teasing her lips. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Vegeta repeated. “I'll be right back.”

He ducked back into his room and sifted through the hamper searching for something to wear. He usually only slept in a pair of boxer shorts, maybe old, holey sweatpants if it was particular cold, but there was no way in hell he was going to allow himself to be so bare in front of Bulma. He grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of workout shorts, raising them to his face to sniff them. They weren't _too_ offensive, so he changed quickly before darting back into Bulma's room.

She had no shame, no sense of self-preservation, and absolutely no mind for danger. She rolled like a content cat, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, and blinked up at him sleepily upon his return. “Aren't you coming to bed?”

Fucking _Christ_.

The cotton shorts she wore were little more than glorified panties, riding high and exposing the curve of her backside. Something insidious began to fester within him, dark and dangerous, a creature that he tried to keep at bay while parodying normalcy. The compulsion to tear her apart, watch her break and sob and shatter, to irrevocably stain he, was overwhelming. Pooling in his groin, demanding retribution for his shitty day. Her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked up at him, eyes so unjustifiably trusting, the smile on her face _his_. As quickly as it seized him the evil creature curled up and died, and Vegeta felt deeply ashamed of himself.

Stifling a groan, Vegeta grabbed one of the pillows and placed it between them before slipping under the covers and laying down next to her, pointedly ignoring her judgemental gaze, and the ache in his face, and the exposed underside of her ass.

“Are you seriously doing this?” Bulma asked incredulously. “You're such a prude.”

“Fuck off.”

He felt her weight shift, heard her soft little sigh and the rustling of covers, before her small voice rang out again. “Goodnight, Vegeta. I'm glad you liked your room.”

“...Goodnight, Bulma.”

 

 

* * *

 

Fanart by the incredibly talented [Rutbisbe](http://rutbisbe.tumblr.com) <3 I am overwhelmed and overjoyed to have such an amazing artist create something so beautiful based off of my little fic, and highly recommend that you check out their other artwork if you haven't already. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry about the delay between chapters. Life has been… a mess. Between caring for someone who is terminally ill, dealing with car crashes, legal issues, and my own health problems, the last few months have been unbearably hectic. I am still trying to post _at least_ one chapter a month, though, so I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long. I'm (probably naively) hopeful that once the holidays are over and done with things will calm down at least somewhat. 
> 
> I have made a _bae_ -treon (for early access to chapters) and a _Ko_ fi for those that may be interested (no pressure, though!), and as per usual I'll keep my tumblr updated with chapter progress so you guys know I haven't completely abandoned you when things go silent! 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has taken the time to read and review this story. My life has been hellishly overwhelming lately, and it warms my heart to know that there are people out there who actually care about what I have to say. I read and cherish every single comment.


	6. Blue Wings and Hurricanes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma and Vegeta find themselves in an awkward and uncomfortable situation, and Goku sets out to ensure that his friends make good on their promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!  
> Despite my brief hiatus there are still elements of this chapter I'm unhappy with, although there are only so many times you can scrap, re-write, and re-purpose particular scenes before you end up doing more harm than good, so for my own sake I've put the pen down. It's also born, in part, from the fact that I've already been fleshing out future chapters that are far more interesting and intense plot wise, and it feels kind of… eh to come back to the beginning of the story again.  
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and as always I'm interested to read your theories about various characters and potential plots!
> 
> Un-beta'd as always, so please don't hesitate to point out any mistakes I may have made. Editing at 4am isn't the best method, and so I'm not always at my sharpest.

* * *

 

“ _I'm reaching for the heights and chasing all the lights that shine, and when they let you down you'll get up off the ground 'cause morning rolls around, and it's another day of sun.”_  
_-_ La La Land (2016)

Warm. Bulma was incredibly warm.

Definitely more so than usual.

Which wasn't entirely unpleasant, she had just grown accustomed to waking up colder than she'd like to have been, and being forced to hunch up blankets and duvets over her shoulders. So much so that being roused from slumber by something other than the chill nipping at her toes was a foreign concept. She felt her shoulders pop as she quite literally shrugged off the last dregs of sleep, not quite ready to open her eyes and face the morning stretched out before her in the form of coffee beans and steaming milk (or milk alternatives). So, instead, she leant into the warmth, savouring it, nuzzling the heated pillow that had, somehow, miraculously made its way into her bed. It was a home comfort she had long since forgotten about, now that she had to pay for her own bills and keeping her room toasty all day and night was _not_ a necessary expense when she had plenty of ratty old blankets to huddle beneath. Her brain regurgitated old memories of Yamcha and the press of his abdomen against her spine as they slept, both knowing full well that he was _not_ supposed to be sneaking into her bedroom at one.am on a school day just so they could clumsily fool around before passing out in post-coital exhaustion. She tried to push the thoughts away, long buried and stained with cynicism, but she was too tired to make a decent effort so she just sort of accepted them in the same way that she accepted she was probably going to fall back into a deep sleep and make herself late for work.

Then the pillow sighed, it's breath fanning across her cheek and consciousness slammed into Bulma, her eyes flying open in alarm. A hideous, jumbled second slowed from a blink to an eternity, and she wasn't quite sure if she'd somehow been successful in her building of a time machine – a concept she'd once discussed with her father only half jokingly – and accidentally launched herself back into the past via a temporal shift; once again rendering herself barely sixteen and naked in the arms of the first boy to ever break her heart. The thought only flickered for a moment before time, unlike that of her fictional machine, lurched back into it's regular pattern and she very nearly laughed aloud at herself for ever entertaining such a ridiculous idea.

But that still didn't explain the suddenly sentient cushion.

The pillow, alarmingly solid, shifted slightly before settling back into place and pressing itself further into the mattress, the black flame atop it's head shaggy and more disorganised than usual.

Oh, fuck. That's right. _Vegeta_.

Vegeta's face was only centimetres from her own, his lips parted slightly and eyes closed. The wall that he had so carefully and pointedly constructed the previous night had evidentially fallen to ruin at some point, and now they both lay among the debris; Vegeta on his side facing her, and Bulma tucked, somehow, under one of his arms.

She studied him more closely and felt her lips turn down with her frown. He looked like such a lost little boy, broken and beaten, his face relaxed in slumber, no longer tense and twisted in his customary scowl, and taking years off of him. One side was inflamed: the skin under his right eye mottled purple and red, and the blackening ring around his neck bore frightening resemblance to fingerprints with a large, fleshy palm shaped mass of red and purple in the centre of his throat. Faint shadows of additional bruises loomed under the surface of his dark skin, and she knew the moment he took a shower and hot water met flesh they would ripen and make themselves more apparent.

She knew it wasn't her fault; he hadn't gotten himself hurt defending her honour as he had at The Lookout, and as far as she could tell this was just an unfortunate consequence of his job, but she felt so utterly hopeless knowing there was nothing she could have done to prevent whatever it was that had happened to him. And she felt really goddamn selfish. How many times in the short span of time that they had known each other had she complained about her old life? How many times had she bitched and moaned about things that just didn't matter? He usually took her rants well, agreeing with a curt grunt, occasionally using actual words to assert that yes, it must have been _awful_ being the genius daughter of a billionaire. Sometimes it was easy to get swept up in his presence, easy to forget that his world was so unlike her own, and that her idea of prison probably looked a lot like his notion of paradise. All the times she had bitched and whinged while he was out there on the receiving end of god-knows-what day in, day out.

_Shit._

What kind of terrible, selfish friend was she?

She should have fought harder to keep him in the apartment when he'd been called away for work, should have insisted that he turn his phone off prior to their painting-turned-paint-fight fiasco, or protested the loss of his company a little more vocally than she did. She could have saved him, maybe.

She just didn't try hard enough.

Before she could sink even further into the well of grief she had crafted for herself, Bulma was distracted by the shifting of covers and the creaking of bedsprings.

Vegeta groaned, the sound pained and worn, one of his hands reaching to touch his face. He winced as his fingers made contact with abused flesh, sucking in a breath between his teeth and gingerly retracting his hand. He blinked awake sluggishly, the whites of his eyes had an eerie pink hue about them, but Bulma tried not to stare at them for too long. He looked disorientated, either from his unusual surroundings or the beating he had taken, it was hard to pinpoint the source, but he seemed not to fully see her.

“Good morning, Bad Man.”

“Hng”

She dared to press herself slightly closer, if only to steal some more of the heat that he was positively radiating before she was forced to truly dive into the morning. To her surprise he didn't protest the intrusion of his privacy as she was sure he would, but when she dared to glance up at him his eyes had closed again and his breathing had levelled out once more.

Bulma chose to observe for a little while longer before she disturbed him again, examining some of his scars up close: some dark and raised, still red and angry, while others lay flat against the surface of his skin, thin white cracks that told stories she wasn't sure she was ready to hear.

“How you feeling today, tough guy?” She said gently, reaching out to tap his shoulder and rouse him from his slumber. She could have sworn his lips turned up in a small smile.

“Hmm, okay,” Vegeta replied, voice still thick with sleep. He yawned, hissing when the action provoked his injuries. He amended his statement with immediate effect. “Actually I feel like shit.”

“Let me have a look at you,” Bulma shifted her weight again, closer still to Vegeta until their bodies very nearly lay completely flush against one another. _This_ evoked a response from him, his eyes darting open and one hand shooting out to shove aggressively at Bulma's shoulder.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Vegeta snapped.

“It's _my_ bed,” Bulma spat back, anger spiking both at his tone and the heat of his palm still radiating along her collarbone and seeping into her bones. Just to spite him she pushed his hand away and crawled closer to Vegeta once more.

Vegeta made an odd, strangled noise, his lip turned up like a snarling beast. “I don't give a fuck whose bed it is. Back off.”

“Who the hell do you think you are telling _me_ what to do?” She pushed back at Vegeta in defiance, weakly wrestling against him as he tried to maintain what little distance he had already established between them. Her thigh brushed against something stiff in the struggle, likely his arm, and he yelped at the contact as though he'd been mortally wounded. “The hell is your problem?”

“ _Bulma_ ,” he sounded pained, and the cheek that wasn't a cluster of purples and blues had morphed into a startling shade of scarlet. His hands fisted the duvet covers more tightly around his middle, and he scooted as best he could towards the edge of the bed. It took a second, Bulma's eyes drifting between his flushed face and the knotted covers, but as realisation began to dawn she felt her own face heat.

That hadn't been his arm.

They both stared in mild horror at the space between them on the bed, as if simultaneously wishing that the mattress would swallow them whole. Her focus flickered momentarily to his lap, simply scientific curiosity, her brain immediately reasoned, and she swallowed down the lump that had become lodged in her rapidly drying throat.

“Oh,” she said finally, voice hoarse.

“...”

“I mean it's normal, right? Just a basic bodily function that happens --”

“Woman...”

“--without your consent. You can't _help_ it --”

“STOP.”

“-- it's not like it means anything. It's just the body's way of saying 'look, I still work!'”

“For fucksake can you _please_ just shut the fuck up?”

“Okay, shutting the fuck up.” Bulma quit her babbling, her fingers interlocking and breaking apart every few seconds. She pushed herself off the bed, knees knocking together, and grabbed a towel that she had thrown unceremoniously over her bed frame the previous morning. “I'm, uh, going to have a shower before work. You stay here until... everything is fixed.”

Vegeta groaned, turning his head to press it desperately into a pillow. His face was as neon red as she was sure her own was, and when he spoke it was through clenched teeth. “That's probably for the best.”

As her fingers curled around the door handle she fought hard to ignore the butterflies rioting in her stomach, and the electric current creeping along her spine.

\--------

“This latte is _cold._ ”

Bulma blinked up from the script she'd been reading against the counter, the world she had fabricated for herself (or, more accurately, the world some likely underpaid writer had fabricated for her) crumbling apart and scattering into the breeze, leaving her perched against cool wood in the backdrop of mediocrity.

The man who demanded her attention was tall and lean, neatly built with bright blue eyes and a crop of neatly maintained blond hair. He might have been handsome, if it wasn't for the condescending sneer twisting every fine feature of his face.

“Excuse me?” Bulma asked, slowly raising a hand to curl a wayward strand of hair around her finger as she counted the freckles that peppered his cheeks. She bat her eyelashes at him for added effect, hoping to dissipate some of his aggression and channel it into something much more mutually beneficial. After all, she was a woman with needs, and he was easy enough on the eyes.

“I _said_ this latte is cold.” Her stranger was having none of it. He held the offending beverage at arms length with a nauseated sneer, as if it were the most grotesque substance in the world. Which Bulma knew was unequivocally untrue. There was a very good reason why their coffee shop remained both open and popular, despite their shitty location and questionable prices.

Not to mention, the latte in question was already half drank.

She released the coil of hair and straightened up, free hand now settling on her hip, a single eyebrow quirked upward. “And... is there a problem with it?”

“Are you a complete moron?” the man growled, shooting Bulma a dirty look. Anything she may have found attractive about him withered away and died. “Did I not just say, twice, that it's cold?”

Bulma remembered the order; the coffee shop had been particularly quiet, a few kids guzzling sugary seasonals in the corner while the occasional waif and stray wandered in with demands for enough caffeine to get them through their shifts or study sessions. It left Bulma with a surplus of basically-free time that she had been dedicating to reciting lines, and she'd been mentally rehearsing a scene involving a young woman and her not-quite-human best friend when _this_ asshole had walked in and snapped out his the name of his desired beverage.

“You did order an iced caramel latte, sir.”

“I'm aware of my order, I'm not an idiot, but no one told me it would be _cold.”_ He slammed the cup down as if to prove a point, the contents spilling over the lip of the cup and pooling on her stack of papers. He had the gall to look pleased with himself, the sneer warping into a smug, self-satisfied grin that gave Vegeta's a run for its money.

Her temper flared, a string of colourful insults and expletives scraping against her teeth and leaving a film of scum on her tongue that she was eager to spit out. “Hey, mister I--”

“I've got this,” Yajirobe suddenly huffed at her side, and she blinked in surprise, having not even heard him come in. Though he seemed annoyed his tone was at least somewhat sympathetic, rolling his eyes at Bulma and handing her the paper bag of chocolate coated coffee beans he'd been gorging himself on in the back room. Yajirobe reached into the pastry display and pulled out a bagel that Bulma knew had been scooped off of the floor earlier this morning, given she was the one to have accidentally dropped it in the first place. She opened her mouth to say something, to make the mistake known, but promptly closed it again when she caught the subtle upturn of Yajirobe's lips.

“As compensation for our mistake,” he said, pushing the pastry and a fresh caramel macchiato towards the customer.

“You should fire her, you know,” The blonde man said, peeling back the lid of his new coffee cup and giving a little nod of approval when he saw the rising steam. He sniffed at it experimentally before taking a sip, and, apparently satisfied, clicked the plastic covering back in place again. His attention returned to Bulma, practically gnashing his teeth at her like the primordial ooze she was rapidly discovering he was. “A girl like her s'bad for business.”

Yajirobe shrugged, unperturbed. “I'll keep your constructive criticism in mind.”

Both servers watched as the blonde man turned sharply on his heal and marched out militaristically, and when the door wafted shut with the chiming of bells behind his sorry (but still, regrettably, cute) butt, Bulma stuck her tongue out childishly.

“What a jackass,” Bulma grumped, somewhat regretting not having lost her temper earlier. There was a sense of loss, the lack of satisfaction at not seeing the guy crumple under her power. She had wanted the high, and was left woefully short.

“Eh, it's all part of the job,” Yajirobe replied with a shrug. He motioned with his hand for her to return his coveted private stash. “It's why I prefer to hang out with animals instead of people.”

“Thanks,” she said before she popped a bean into her mouth, moaning quietly to herself as the flavours burst to life over her tongue. She, somewhat reluctantly, handed the paper bag back.

“Don't mention it,” he preened, running his right hand through his hair while his left, clutching the coffee beans, settled on his hip. “They don't call me 'Bean Daddy' for nothing.”

“Literally no-one calls you Bean Daddy.”

“Says you.”

Bulma grinned. “So, you going to actually fire me?”

“Nah. Not my place, and if I did Popo would only make me work twice as hard instead of hiring someone new.”

And that was that.

Another hour rolled by with little intrusion or issue, with Yajirobe going back to feeding the resident white alley cat in the back office (under the guise of concocting brand new flavours for the summer season) and Bulma returned to pouring over her script (now sporting tarry stains and bleeding ink work) between brewing sugary concoctions and wiping down tables. She tried not to think about much, other than getting through her shift and rehearsing lines, but every so often her mind would wander, the dark and lonely path it took always leading to Vegeta. She couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that he was still in danger, that the beating he'd taken the night before was only a warm up, a warning, and whatever was waiting for him on the other side of the door when he left for work every morning had the power to destroy him.

The image of him looking so exhausted, in so much pain, was branded onto the inside of her eyelids, and no matter how hard she tried to wish the image away so could only block it out for short snatches of time, and inevitably it would return with an intensity that was hard for her to completely fathom. There were, among the flashes of him looking torn up and battle worn, flickering stills of something no entirely safe for the working environment, a new appreciation born from mistake appendage identity, but Bulma pushed those back with far greater effort than she exerted on the rest whenever they threatened to run riot and consume her.

A few hours before the end of her shift, just as the sky was beginning its transition from muted blue to a greyish mottling of purples and reds, the bell above the door jingled again, which in and of itself wasn't particularly unusual. What was unusual was the patron, a person who she knew didn't enjoy the taste of coffee, stood proud as punch in the entrance to the small coffee shop she called her personal hell.

Goku had thrown on an orange hoodie over his gi, stuffing his pants into well worn black boots, and his hands into his pockets. Despite her being the only one behind the counter, and only a few handfuls of strangling customers scattered across various seats, he looked around before alighting his focus on Bulma. He waved sweetly, crossing the distance that stretched out between them in two long strides.

“Hi, Bulma!” Goku said brightly, rocking back on his heals slightly as he spoke. As always he was grinning, boyish and relaxed, and all thoughts of blonde assholes and grumpy roommates drifted away.

Bulma smiled in return, his enthusiasm for life infectious. “Oh hey, Goku. This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to grab a couple of drinks for me and Tien, and double check what time you're comin' over this weekend.”

“Huh? Did we make plans?”

“It's Yamcha's party...thing. Chi Chi said she told ya the last time we all hung out...” Goku paused to scratch the back of his head. “She said somethin' about wantin' back a dress you'd borrowed, but I don't know much about that.”

“Oh, _shit._ ” She remembered making a vague, non-committal comment, but nothing more, and in all honesty it had slipped her mind. It wasn't that she disliked Yamcha, they had been exceptionally close friends prior to their relationship after all, she simply couldn't handle how awkward and tense things inevitably became when someone (usually Chi Chi) made a comment about what a cute couple the pair of them had made, and how it was _such_ a shame that they couldn't work things out. When she had Launch by her side at least she had someone in her corner; a wildcard who would enter a colourful tirade until the other person backed down and conceded that perhaps not all high school romances were destined to go the distance, and some things were just better left unsaid.

“I'm sure Chi Chi won't mind if ya don't have the dress ready...” Goku said, misunderstanding Bulma's reluctance. He trailed off, knowing as well as Bulma that his wife definitely _would_ mind if Bulma were to have misplaced her dress, and lying wouldn't make the fact that she'd likely skin both Bulma and Goku alive if he returned empty handed any less true.

“No, it's not that,” Bulma said, chewing over what to say next. Normally she would lie, to avoid scrutiny. The inevitable rush of pity aimed towards the girl had once, famously, had it all, but was now single, broke and fallen from grace. But this was Goku, and he didn't possess a single bone malicious enough to think less of her, to rehash worn _I told you so_ speeches under the guise of empathy. Honest words fell easily from her tongue. “The dress is at my place, I'm just not sure I want to spend the night hanging out with my increasingly successful ex, and friends who actually have their shit together.”

Goku chuckled, deep and throaty. “Bulma, if ya think any of us actually have our shit together you're wrong.”

A warm rush of love radiating outwards from her chest towards her best friend. While not always the most impressive when it came to articulating anything serious, Goku was capable of easing her worries and lifting her mood with the simplest of statements. Her heart fluttered, and she reached out to pet his hand from across the countertop.

Out of habit she fixed a hot chocolate for Goku and a black tea for Tien, a small spoon of honey added in both, just the way they liked it. They chatted idly as she worked, mostly about Gohan's schooling and Bulma's hit-and-miss audition schedule. When she slid the beverages towards him Goku looked lost, as though he'd forgotten the purpose of his visit, before shrugging to himself and resolving any issue he may have had in his own head.

“Shouldn't you be going back to the dojo?”

“Nah, Tien can handle things. Besides, Chiaotzu is pitchin' in today.”

“Do you ever actually do any work?” Bulma asked with a laugh.

Goku's face fell, and he looked like a petulant child who'd just been told 'no' one too many times. “Aw, c'mon Bulma, now you just sound like Chi Chi.”

“How dare you!” She clutched her hand to her chest in mock horror, but the character broke when Goku flashed her a brilliant, beaming smile. “Chi Chi still hounding you to leave the dojo?”

“She doesn't think it's a _real_ job, whatever that means.”

“Don't let Tien hear her say that. His heart might actually break in two.”

They laughed a little too loudly for a joke that wasn't particularly funny, earning them pointed looks from the other customers still lingering about The Lookout.

“Really, you'd better hurry. The drinks will be getting cold. I'll text Vegeta and tell him you'll be coming over, just in case he's home,” Bulma said. “Let yourself in. There's some leftover pizza from a couple nights ago in the fridge you can have if he hasn't already pilfered them.”

“So, how's things livin' with Vegeta?” The way Goku looked at her, with his chin cupped in his palm and his elbow on the table, eyes glittering mischievously, made her uncomfortable. As if he knew something Bulma didn't. Which was _really_ saying something.

“What do you mean?” Bulma asked carefully, her eyes narrowed.

“Nothin'. You two just seemed kinda close when we met.”

“I barely said two words to him the entire time you guys were over. _You_ spoke to him more than I did.”

“Words aren't the only thing that you can use to get close to someone.”

Bulma's blood ran cold, the old cliché hitting her hard with a sucker punch to the gut that left her winded and clutching at the countertop for support. Had Vegeta said something to Raditz, who in turn spilled the beans to his brother? No, that couldn't be it. Vegeta didn't seem like the type to willingly share anything with anyone, much less a loud mouth like Raditz who took every opportunity presented to him to humiliate those around him.

So how did Goku know? _Did_ Goku even know?

Unable to draw forth the confidence to face Goku's thinly veiled accusation head on, and partly convinced that he may know nothing at all, and her aroused suspicion was a result of poorly placed words and gnawing (unnecessary) guilt, Bulma opted to redirect the conversation.

“This... event... what's it like? Because that dress is pretty fancy and I want to know what I'm getting myself in for.”

“Not sure. The GR is pretty swanky, I guess. You know what Yamcha's like.”

Bulma groaned. Yes, she did. He was opportunistic, and if given the chance to show off and prance about like a glorified peacock, he'd seize it with both arms wide open. Clearly this was less about being proud of his achievements, and more about demonstrating his newfound success and potential fame. Though she couldn't begrudge him too much; Bulma would be doing the exact same thing if she were in his position.

“You know, I don't know why Chi Chi even wants this dress. She hasn't worn somethin' like it since before she had Goten, and she has loads of 'em like it just hangin' up in the closet at home. I don't know if it would even fit her.”

“Christ!” She thumped a fist against his uselessly, and he barely flinched. “You didn't say that to Chi Chi, did you?!”

“Huh? Yeah, why?”

“My God. How and why that woman hasn't divorced you yet is beyond my comprehension. She must have the patience of a saint,” Running a hand over her face, Bulma wrestled between throwing a temper tantrum on Chi Chi's behalf, or laughing at the absurdity of it all. She settled on neither, instead forcing a rush of air out through her nostrils with an exaggerated sigh. “You know what Goku, it's a good thing you're cute.”

\--------

 _The fuck do you need condoms for, runt? Got yourself a girlfriend?  
Don't be absurd, Dodoria. Have you seen him? As if any respectable woman would want to come within fifty feet of such a hideous little creature.   
__Guess he's just payin' for it.  
_ _A dirty little monkey sourcing whores in the gutter because_ **he can't control himself**. How very fitting. 

His muscles ached, the painful tightening of latissimus dorsi and exhausted quivering of both biceps and triceps indicating that his body desperately wanted him to _stop_. He'd lost track of the number of pushups he'd done; somewhere around the one hundred and fifty mark he'd just stopped counting and put his all into working his body to the brink of broken-beyond-repair in an attempt to dull the burning shame and searing pain that had assaulted him in tandem that morning.

Nappa had, blissfully, informed Vegeta that their presence was not required at the office today. Apparently Frieza, in a rare rush of faux-generosity, had decided that the Saiyan faction – after witnessing murder, blackmail, and their leader's strangulation on an impromptu whim designed to mentally torture aforementioned leader – deserved a day off to 'collect their thoughts'. It was essentially code for _buck up your fucking ideas and remember you're my_ _ **slaves**_ , a thinly veiled way of reminding them not to fail again disguised as compassion, but for once Vegeta couldn't care less about ulterior motives and hidden agendas.

It was clever, really. Trick the peons into thinking that they have some free will, some control over their lives. That their master wasn't comic- book level evil. It was amazing what the foggy charade of enfranchisement could do for morale.

Nappa had tried to instigate some form of conversation, the first real one since their ill-fated argument several weeks ago – the shoddy check up the night before not included – but Vegeta had shot that down immediately. He had no desire to spill his heart to anyone, let alone his reluctant, would-be replacement father-figure, his souring mood only plummeting further when forced to even think about anything that had transpired over the last twenty-four hours.

Despite himself he hoped that the kid from the bar was alright.

Nail had been a casualty, but certainly not one that would keep Vegeta up at night in mourning and regret. His death was neither special nor particularly unexpected, and he certainly wouldn't be the last that Vegeta would have a part in or bear witness to. Then there was Guru. Frankly, he couldn't give two shits about the old man, gasping for breath and clutching his heart. In all honesty the fat fuck probably deserved it, getting himself involved with a mutant like Frieza when he had kids to look after, and if he died it would be one less shitty father in the world to ruin their children's lives. Vegeta had no sympathy for guys like him, but the kid? That was a whole different story. The kid had no control over his life. The kid was just another unfortunate casualty of life in the underworld.

One likely to die before puberty was through with him, or end up just like Vegeta.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

He really, _really_ hoped the brat had made it out alive.

Vegeta tried not to dwell on it any further, but his options were limited; focus on the fact that Frieza had dedicated an entire day (Vegeta's day off, no less) to pushing his buttons and very nearly ending his life, _or_ focus on the fact that his roommate-slash-first-normal-person-friend-he'd-ever-had has allowed him to share her bed after decorating his room, but caught him with a hard-on like some horny teenager in the morning.

He pressed his face into his sweaty bicep, grinding his teeth and battling back the urge to storm outside and rip someone's throat out.

_What the hell do you want, Nappa?  
I think it's time we had a little talk, squirt. Ya old man ever tell you about the birds an' the bees?_

His bodily mishap had been excruciatingly embarrassing, an unwelcome biological response to physical proximity and the increase of testosterone coupled with a decrease of noradrenaline, that had left him feeling like a flustered, under-experienced boy. Which, for all intents and purposes, he pretty much was. Still, _she_ didn't need to know that, and she certainly didn't need to know about involuntary functions, judging him with that goddamn twinkle in her eye that she always fucking had.

It probably wouldn't have been so awful if it _had_ just been a physical thing. But, as shameful as it was to admit even to himself, it was the fact that he'd been enjoying a very convincing and _interesting_ dream about Bulma before he'd woken up that really set him on edge.

It had started off innocent enough, with Bulma tending to Vegeta's injuries with that sweet, aching expression of concern she wore so well. As she had in real life, she took care to properly examine him, turning him this way and that, clicking her tongue as she cleaned scrapes and dressed his wounds. But then, unlike real life, as her task drew to a close her hands had begun to wander, slipping down his neck, over his chest, until they settled in his lap. And then, somehow, their mouths had fused together, and the hands in his lap had been replaced by her body grinding against him, and time had leapt about until they were both naked and she was moaning his name in the most spectacular way he could imagine, and he was shamelessly pursing both her orgasm and his own with the almost violent upthrust of his hips.

He'd woken up just as she was keening in his fantasy, and it had taken a little while for him to work out that not only was he in her bed, but he was painfully, excruciatingly hard and the real Bulma, that little _bitch_ was trying to crawl all over his lap like there was absolutely nothing wrong.

Objectively speaking Bulma was attractive, and she didn't treat him like he was a useless piece of garbage, and she'd kept fucking _touching_ him the night before, so _of course_ it was going to manifest and present in an unfortunate manner.

It didn't mean anything, right?

His stomach growled, another bodily betrayal that Vegeta wanted no part of, and he huffed to himself.

Skipping breakfast had been incidental, his desire to hide from Bulma like some snivelling, weak-willed rodent had for once over-powered his desire to eat and showcase bravado, and so after righting himself while she was in the shower (something he had tried really, really hard not to overthink for the sake of his rapidly dwindling dignity and the rush of blood pooled in his groin), Vegeta retreated to his own room – still stale with the lingering odour of paint – and stayed there until he heard her keys lift from the counter and the front door click behind her.

Failing miserably on his own, all he'd managed to make himself was a rather pathetic ham salad sandwich, of which the meat was already turning slimy, the lettuce was limp, and the bread had developed that almost sugary taste that suggested it too was toying with the boundaries of acceptable consumption. He'd contemplated just going out and grabbing something from a deli or drive-thru but the thought of spending more money, money that could be applied to his goal of freedom, made him feel just as shitty as his busted up face and wayward erection, so that idea was swiftly abandoned.

So he'd settled on punishing himself with a workout. The gym was out of bounds, obviously, because no doubt some fucker would be there asking shit-eating questions on Zarbon's behalf, if Zarbon wasn't there himself, prancing around in his way-too-short-shorts. He wasn't ready to face the scores of gossiping minions, or the idiots fluttering around him pestering him for information about the previous night's events. _Is it true? Did you_ _ **really**_ _survive an encounter with the boss?_ He'd likely destroy something or someone before the day was up, and, besides, he'd rather not waste his freshly reimbursed day off surrounded by people he hated.

Home workout it was, then.

He continued the routine he had established for himself for an unrecorded amount of time, dutifully ignoring trembling limbs, making false promises of fancy steak dinners and loaded dinner plates in a mostly futile attempt to motivate himself to just keep going. A bribe to his shattered body that it would be more than worth it if he could just break through his limits.

Vegeta could feel the tingle of some untapped energy source swelling at the base of his spine, a barrier cracking and splintering, ripe with the promise that there was something more for him to conquer, if only he could reach it.

He was within touching distance, the bead of sweat that trailed down his neck leading the way, when he was interrupted; there was an ungodly clatter, the noisy scraping of the front door as it protested against the intrusion, the unmistakable crash of something colliding with the floor. Startled by the noise, Vegeta's arms enacted a mutiny, giving up with one final wobble that set him face first onto the ground.

Something else fell in the kitchen, and the footsteps that followed the sound were far too heavy and uneven in their step to be Bulma's. Thoughts of Frieza sending one of his goons to finish teaching Vegeta his lesson resurfaced from the night before, and he cursed himself for not considering the possibility of Frieza's generosity being a trap sooner. He pushed himself up and instinctively reached for his gun, retrieving it from its hiding spot under his mattress and clicking the safety off.

_At least she wasn't here._

Slowly and silently Vegeta opened his bedroom door and rounded the corner into the hallway. The sound was mostly localised to the main living area, but he could never be sure with Frieza's men, so he bristled at the sudden openness. Having navigated his far unnoticed, and not being completely adverse to a bloody death as long as he could get a few good revenge shots in, Vegeta burst into action and rounded into the kitchen-living-room. He raised the pistol and steadied the aim, his finger caressing the trigger like an old lover he had yet to fully reacquaint himself with, when he recognised he garish flash of orange and the messy black tangle that sat atop it.

The hand holding the gun fell limply to his side. “Kakarot, what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

Goku stopped what he was doing (namely ransacking the fridge and devouring a pizza that Vegeta didn't know they still had), arms raised defensively, eyeing Vegeta. “Easy buddy. Does Bulma know you have a gun in here?"

“Do you know when to mind your own damn business?” Vegeta huffed in response, safety back on and the gun placed (somewhat reluctantly) onto the breakfast table. “Again, what the fuck are you doing in my apartment, eating my fucking food?

Unperturbed by Vegeta's hostility, Goku smiled: a large, lopsided goofy grin that made him look like a damn caricature of a person. “Bulma told me to come by and grab a dress for Chi Chi. She said she text ya.”

“Well she didn't.”

“Are ya sure? Check your phone.”

Vegeta scoffed and muttered several obscenities under his breath. He dug his phone out of his pocket mostly for show, to prove Goku wrong and lord it over him, only for his scowl to deepen. Sure enough the offending message, unread, brazenly stared up at him in all its pixilated glory.

> _Not sure if you'll be home, but Goku might swing by later. Tell him it's the red one in the closet. He'll know what I mean. [smiley face] [heart][heart]_

Unwilling to engage the fool in any more conversation than absolutely necessary, Vegeta thrust the phone at Goku, his lips hooking down with derision.

“Wow, hearts and everythin'. Bulma musta taken quite a shine to you, huh?”

“Fuck off.”

Goku smiled at the barb, rubbing the back of his head. “I'm gonna go get that dress then.”

With a grunt Vegeta let the other man pass, then remained where he stood; watching Goku's back disappear into Bulma's room with a familiarity that rankled him unjustifiably, his fingers always remaining within twitching distance of the breakfast table and his gun.

Goku returned a couple of moments later with a dress slung over his forearm, smoothing it out with the palm of his hand as though the manner in which he was carrying it wouldn't cause it to wrinkle anyway. Instead of leaving immediately he beamed brightly at Vegeta. “So did ya like what we did with the place?”

“What are you blabbering on about?”

“Your room. Bulma called me up and I helped her paint it.”

“You were in my room?” Vegeta asked, aghast. His heart came to an uncomfortable and immediate stop, an audible thunk followed by a tense and unnatural silence. Self preservation dictated that another's presence in his personal space, especially when that person was uninvited, was a clear no. Occasionally a few stragglers may be granted safe passage, but they were few and far between, and their invitations were always underlined by clear expiration dates. But that was merely about maintaining a comfortable emotional distance, ensuring that bonds remained severed enough as to not hinder him in achieving his ultimate goal. What was _really_ setting Vegeta's nerves ablaze was the thought of someone finding his money.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars that he had squirrelled away over his lifetime, all buried behind the wall that currently separated the two occupants of the apartment from his bedroom. It was part of the reason he had hated going from motel-to-motel, aside from the disproportionate costs and the inconvenience of it all; the lack of control and assured safety habitually frying his nerves and drawing him tighter and tighter. The first thing he had done upon moving in with Bulma was to wrench up a floorboard and stuff the over-sized duffle bag containing his potential freedom in the hole, dragging the dresser over the spot for good measure.

It wasn't perfect, and it made Vegeta feel incredibly uneasy, having so much money just laying around, but the thought of putting it in a bank made him feel uneasier still, as though Frieza would somehow be able to not only find out about it, but find a way to rid Vegeta of it through his connections. It made no sense, he knew that, and Frieza would find a way to take everything from under him regardless of how he stored his finances, but at least if he kept the money on him he could religiously count and recount it until his fingers bled.

And now Raditz's half-wit of a brother had unknowingly come into contact with the fruits of nearly two decades of hard labour.

Instinct begged Vegeta to push Goku aside and rip up the floorboards, for confirmation that the hapless idiot was exactly that, and not merely playing a role in order to rob Vegeta of his life savings.

Oblivious to Vegeta's mental breakdown, Goku rambled on. “Uhuh. Bulma wasn't tall enough to reach the But I guess you'd have had trouble too, so it's probably a good thing she called me, huh?”

A burst of anger began to effervesce in the pit of Vegeta's stomach. He could probably kill Goku right now and no-one would ever find out. Sure, the wife and kid would start asking questions as the hours and days ticked by, but how hard would it be to convince them that he'd just fucked off somewhere on his own accord and if he came back good for them, and if he didn't it was probably for the best? Husbands abandoned their wives and kids all the time, Vegeta was living proof of that. But then there was also Raditz. He would _definitely_ ask questions, which would complicate matters further. Vegeta could always kill Raditz too, in for a penny and all that, but Vegeta actually quite liked Raditz (beneath the infuriating layers or disrespect, bumbling inadequacy, and annoyance, of course), and Bulma would get suspicious if both of her friends went missing. Which would mean Vegeta would have to kill _her_ too.

His stomach twisted at the hypothetical scenario. The situation would escalate far too quickly, and it just wasn't worth his time.

“If I ever catch you in my room again, I'll use your entrails to paint the walls afresh. Is that clear?”

Again, all Goku did was chuckle and smile. “Crystal, buddy.” Mercifully, Goku finally made his way to the front door, though he paused before he could make any real attempt to leave. “Hey, Vegeta?”

“What is it now, Kakarot?”

“Is my brother okay?” Goku's tone was noticeably softer, lacking the clownish joviality Vegeta had quickly come to expect. He sounded almost sad, and when Vegeta dared to turn his head he was met with a look of pity that lingered unashamedly on abused flesh. Vegeta cringed; at least Bulma had the decency to look away.

“Raditz is fine,” Vegeta grit out, though much like Goku his voice was softer than usual. Kinder. “As am I. There's no need to leer at me as though I'm some half-starved mutt on the street.”

“That's good,” Goku offered him a quick two fingered salute, before vanishing out of the apartment, and leaving Vegeta alone to dwell on his thoughts.

\--------

Bulma waited all day for a reply, her hand dipping into her apron to fish out her phone whenever she thought she felt it vibrate. She considered that the inclusion of heart emojis might have been a little too much given the current state of affairs, but it would have been more awkward to treat him differently now than it would be to simply carry on as if nothing had happened.

Vegeta didn't text her back, and when she came home from work with a thermos of coffee it remained untouched next to the kitchen sink until the next morning when she was forced to tip it down the drain before it began to stagnate.

The note she had left next it, something silly and cute that she could quite remember the specifics of, had been torn into dozens of little pieces and dumped in the trash.

\--------

The next day the tupperware box of chicken, rice and pasta she had made him for his return to work remained abandoned on the centre shelf of the fridge where she had left it. She did, however, find some wrappers from a cheap (and shit) fast food joint shoved in garbage next to the shredded remains of the note.

She ate the unwanted meal in silence.

\--------

Vegeta awoke to a faint rapping on his door, as persistent as it was annoying.

At first he had put it down to being over tired and over stimulated; he had rolled in from work just before sunrise, knuckles swollen and eyes aching, both from the lack of sleep and the monotony of counting the same stacks of money over and over again to ensure the end result would still come up as expected. He plugged a finger in his exposed ear and wiggled it, and for a few blissful seconds it seemed to do the trick. He hitched the covers higher over his shoulder, trying to ignore the sunlight filtering in through his blinds, and let out a small sigh.

The knocking returned. Louder, more deliberate. Four knuckles colliding against wood with some degree of force. He tried to bury his head under a pillow to escape it, grinding down on his teeth.

“Vegeta, it's me. Can we please talk?” Bulma's voice, muffled by the partition between them, was sad and low as it joined the knocking. “C'mon Bad Man, it's been three days.”

Vegeta sat up and let the blankets pool around his middle, shivering slightly when the cool rush of air that followed assaulted exposed flesh. There she was again, calling him 'Bad Man' as if the title were a term of playful endearment, and not a grossly simplified summation of the monster he was.

He didn't _hate_ the nickname. It was a lot better than 'Getes', in that he didn't have the barely controlled urge to crush her skull beneath his booted feet when she said it. But it did make him feel queasy, a sort of baby hangover of dehydration, mounting nausea and self doubt. It churned up memories of her helpless in his hands as he came to her rescue in the very same coffee shop he himself had once verbally assaulted her in, of her brilliant, expressive eyes pinning him to that spot. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it wasn't a particularly _good_ sensation either. The simultaneous pleasure and muted ache achieved by pressing a thumb against a fresh bruise and then releasing the digit.

Speaking of...

Vegeta glanced at the mirror above his chest of drawers. He winced at his reflection, turning his head to examine the bruising under various light sources, but finding the end result to be much the same regardless of angles.

He looked like fucking shit.

Admittedly better than he looked a few days prior, the mottling fading to yellow around the edges and the whites of his eyes losing that reddish hue that had made him look somewhat demonic, but still awful by traditional standards of what a human face should look like.

“You can't ignore me forever.” She Bulma the door again, and the muted thud that followed suggested she'd pressed her weight against it. “I miss you.”

He snorted in dismissal, shooting the door an accusatory look as if it were the one to utter those three little words that felt like a cheap sucker punch to the gut. Had anyone ever missed him before? People had told him that they'd wished he'd turned up to a fight, or had been on duty with them for certain missions before, but they never really missed him, merely his strength. Vegeta struggled to recall a time when someone actually, actively missed his presence, but came up short.

And, begrudgingly, Vegeta had to admit she was right, and he couldn't actually avoid a woman that he lived with indefinitely. It just wasn't practical. More than that, he missed her too. He missed the white noise of the television, and the practically non-existent weight of her as she pressed herself against him on the couch. He missed the upturn of her lips, and the hidden blade of her tongue. The way she huffed his name when he pissed her off, and the way her nose would wrinkle as she skimmed through scripts. All the little mundanities of life that he had never known, but had quietly come to appreciate it.

It had only been a couple of days, but each hour without her presence felt more like a week, and he was overwhelmed by an oppressive ache that he hadn't felt since his father bartered him away for nothing more than a few extra, ill-spent months.

But, of course, Vegeta couldn't let any of that show, so instead he answered with a curt,“what do you want?”

“I have an audition on the other side of town and I need you to take me.”

“Catch the fucking bus.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm running late and I'm going to miss my slot if we don't hurry.”

“ _We_ don't have to do anything,” Vegeta said, rising to his feet anyway and padding towards the door in just his boxers. He rest his head against the flat surface, subconsciously mimicking the woman who stood on the other side of the barricade. “Why don't you call Raditz instead of bothering me?”

There was a muffled huff of frustration. “He won't pick up and you know as well as I do that he's a terrible driver.”

“That's not my problem.”

“Don't be like this. I need you. Not just right now, but all the time.”

Vegeta hesitated, heart leaping. He had developed a weakness for the vulnerable and needy that hadn't existed prior to her explosion into his life, and his tolerance for begging was swiftly crumbling. To hear that she needed him felt like someone had gathered up the charred remnants of his soul and reshaped them into something vaguely resembling a person.

“Please? I'll buy you lunch if you take me,” Bulma said, taking full advantage of the crack in Vegeta's armour. “Help me, Vegeta Breigh. You're my only hope.”

He groaned at the referential corniness, sucking in air through his teeth to contain the worst of the noise, but nonetheless tapped a toe against the floor before reaching for the door handle. Acutely aware that he was practically nude, Vegeta only opened the door a slither. “How long?”

Bulma's eyes lit up and she clapped her hands together excitedly. “Ten minutes?”

 “Fuck it. Give me five.”

\--------

The audition had been going well.

For one, they were actually watching _her_ and not worrying about deli meats and lunch orders, which was always a plus. Secondly, she was absolutely _killing_ it, and she knew it. Each word came out more confident than the last, until her monologue was Oscar worthy in its performance.

When one of the casting directors sat up straighter mid-way through her performance, eyes wide, she could almost envision the smug phone call home she'd make when she got the part and _finally_ landed her big break. Her dad would cough and splutter around his cigarettes, and her mom might actually show some emotion other than unsettling, hollow glee and cry. Her sister would cry for a whole other reason, and Bulma could go to bed at night feeling like she'd actually accomplished something.

Other than her revolutionary, bordering-on-genuinely-unbelievable scientific advancements, of course.

But then they'd asked her for her age and her history in the business, and when she'd been honest the facade of their undivided interest had cracked imperceptibly, but just enough to have her hopes crack with it.

It was a big project, expensive and somewhat risky. They wanted someone a little older, with a little more experience under their belt, apparently, but they had her number and they'd call her if something came up.

Oh well, she tried to tell herself as she stormed out of the building and into the passenger seat of Vegeta's car. Their fucking loss.

Which is how and why she found herself back at the beach, this time with a surly Vegeta in tow, trying not to overthink the fact that her window of opportunity (namely pilot season) was shrinking day by day, and if she didn't land something soon she'd go yet another year with essentially nothing under her belt.

Vegeta had remained characteristically silent throughout the duration of their impromptu adventure, though he did call the panel a bunch ofvegetative morons lacking all sense of taste, which helped cheer her up immensely.

As promised Bulma dragged him to a little shake shore-side, a cheap and easy little shop that she and her friends had frequented a lot during their teens, boasting about the taste sensation that was their limited selection of junk foods. Vegeta didn't seem entirely convinced by the rodomontade, but he complied anyway and browsed the menu with interest.

He loaded his hotdog with every possible accompaniment – cheese, bacon, chilli, onions, jalapeños, cole slaw, chutney, pulled pork, sauerkraut... if it was on the menu then Vegeta ordered it. At first she thought he was doing it simply to piss her off, but as the server complied with his demands for _more_ Vegeta actually _salivated_ , and she realised that his stomach was just as bottomless and just as bizarre as Goku's. Bulma, like a normal human being, ordered a regular dog with caramelised onions.

She pulled out her card to pay, another unnecessary charge that would only help her rack up even more interest and send her spiralling further into debt. Two hot, calloused fingers tapped her forearm as she raised the plastic. She blinked and looked around, finding Vegeta as he tried to slip a ten dollar bill in her direction, as subtly as he could manage, but her pride bruised at the gesture, at being offered financial help for such a meagre sum, and she pushed the money back towards him with a tight smile.

“Don't worry about it, I've got this,” she said, before pausing and adding, “you can buy the beers on the way home.”

She didn't value her pride _that_ much.

“Seems reasonable,” he concluded.

Sufficiently scarred by Vegeta's appetite and eager to end the transaction as quickly as possible, the server handed over the dogs as Bulma tore the receipt from the card reader. Vegeta's meal was a monster that oozed and dribbled, but it didn't look or smell nearly as awful as she had originally anticipated. As far as grotesqueries went, it was pretty low on the list of things Bulma had been forced to bear witness to. Still, it was emphatically gross, and she was glad that she wasn't the one forced to eat it.

The walked over the little bar of condiments in shared silence, Bulma reaching for ketchup first, snaking red across her very reasonable log of processed meat. She held out the bottle for Vegeta to take but he wrinkled his nose and pulled a face. Instead, he reached for the mustard and added it to the garbage-plate style monstrosity he'd invented.

“No. That would be disgusting.”

“Silly me. Of _course_ I should have known that ketchup would ruin your otherwise delicious hotdog.”

They sat at a little two person table, just across the way from the worn booth she and her friends used to cram themselves into. The chair legs were uneven and the tabletop wobbled dangerously when the weight of elbows was applied to its surface, but it offered a pleasant view of the ocean.

“Thanks,” Bulma said, picking at the bread with her fingers and scattering the crumbs on the tabletop. Vegeta stared at her blankly. “For agreeing to help me,” she clarified.

An apathetic snort was all she got for her gratitude, and she felt herself deflate. It was like they had gone back to square one; two angry strangers taking out their disdain for the world out on each other, bathed in awkwardness that stank like sewage when forced to communicate. For no real reason she felt her eyes begin to burn. She shouldn't care, not this much. They hardly knew each other, after all. If he didn't want to be her friend, she had plenty more to compensate for his absence, right?

“It's not like you gave me much of a choice,” Vegeta huffed. The tone of his voice and the painstaking care he took to look her in the eye told her than he was no madder at her now for dragging him out than he had been a few days earlier, and the ulcer than had been forming in her gut began to subside slightly. “I'm only here for the free food.”

Bulma grinned. “Of course.”

They ate the rest of their meal in silence, Vegeta polishing off his disgusting concoction and pushing off from his chair to grab himself another a second, substantially less over-stuffed hotdog, while Bulma barely had the appetite to finish the first. Her stomach swelled and rolled over itself, the disappointment from yet another pointless audition mixing with the anxiety of the last few days. Though he didn't seem particularly angry with her, there was still a distance between herself and Vegeta that extended far beyond the brushing of their knees under cheap laminate that she couldn't quite close, and with each passing second the chasm only seemed to widen.

At Bulma's request they strolled along the boardwalk, her bottom lip wobbling threateningly when Vegeta tried to protest otherwise. It hadn't gone to plan, and they were still wading through strained reticence when they came to a stop.

Vegeta leant against the railings overlooking the beach, his arms crossed on the metal bar and a customary scowl fixed across his features. The breeze teased his hair, making it dance and crackle like wildfire, and in the natural light Bulma swore she could see hints of red peaking beneath ebony. She supposed that, to strangers, though he gave the affectation of calm, he looked intimidating. He was shorter than most of her other friends, but far more powerfully built; all broad shoulders and thew, positively radiating an aura of magnanimous strength that could be turned, unmatched, on an unlucky spectator at any given moment. Which would explain why most of the passers by instinctively gave him a wide berth.

But Bulma knew better.

He looked so sad and lost beneath the bruises and the hard lines of his face. His gaze focused on the horizon so intently, so innocently, as if something just beyond the ocean could solve all of his problems. His body was tense in discomfort, and when Bulma took a tentative step towards him she noticed the vein in his neck throb and his jaw tighten in response.

He was scared. Of _her._

Vegeta was still so hung up about the morning wood incident, something which she would have forgotten about with anyone else in her life. The amount of times she'd caught Tien and Launch in (multiple) compromising positions, or felt a random erection poke her ass in the middle of the night during one of the groups many intersex sleep-overs, or had to push Raditz's hand away when it snaked just a little too far up her thigh were numerable enough that it no longer bothered her. Hell, her friends had walked in on her and Yamcha so frequently that they may as well have classed themselves as active participants in her sex life (though towards the end there were already far too many members and Bulma would have rather not bolstered the numbers any further).

If it were anyone else they could have laughed it off together. Felt awkward about it for a few hours, sure, but then the giggles would kick in and it would dissolve away into meaningless banter that would only be dredged up as ammunition during drunken hang-out sessions and psychological warfare during video game death matches.

But this wasn't anyone else, and Vegeta was clearly struggling with the issue, wound far too tightly to just laugh it away as a future anecdote and nothing more. She could feel him slipping away from her, retracting into a hardened shell that would break for absolutely no-one. The phantom sand that gave way between her fingers told Bulma that time was running out, and if she lost Vegeta now she may lose him for good.

Everything about him clashed so harshly with the other members of her social circle. From the brash, abrasive way he spoke, to the dark, brooding aura he wore like a shroud. He held himself like royalty, rigid and proud. He was absolutely nothing like Goku or Raditz, lacking the playful joviality that both Son brothers exuded; he wasn't warm and polite like Krillin, and he certainly wasn't as forthright and social as Chi Chi. At times he almost reminded her of Tien; radiating strength but quiet and reserved, but with a hint of something _more_ once you scratched the surface. But even then he lacked Tien's warmth, the strides he took beyond platonic observer into almost parental territory.

Vegeta was his own creature, a black hole in human skin. The remnants of a fallen planet reduced to dust and scattered across the cosmos. A dangerous, feral creature caged and cattle prodded for the amusement of others. An inferno, too hot to touch, felling entire forests and blistering through homes.

But more than that. Broken. Sad. Lonely. Shy. Lost.

He compartmentalised things he found difficult to express or come to terms with through sheer avoidance; Vegeta didn't want to talk about the specifics of his job, so any conversation that steered that was was simply dropped or radically circumvented. He didn't want to tell Bulma what had happened to his face, so he shut down and forced a subject change. And he didn't want to dive out of his comfort zone and engage with Bulma after their mostly innocent night together, so he grew intolerant of her presence and all but disavowed their budding friendship.

He must have noticed her staring and he turned his head just slightly to watch her in return. His skin looked hot, flushed with embarrassment, and he lifted a single brow in question.

Bulma knew what she had to do.

“We used to come down here all the time,” she said tentatively, easing herself into the situation rather than diving in head first. She had no way of fighting him head on, outmatched in cunning and power. Going toe-to-toe with Vegeta was a war of attrition, and she had spent the day slowly wearing him down. “You know, me, Goku, Raditz and the others. When we were kids, we were always down here.”

Vegeta looked as if he wanted to say something, caught himself, and thought better of it. He settled on a simple 'hng' and a nod which, in his language, was profoundly articulate.

“I don't want things to be weird between us. It's okay, you know, I don't think any less of you and you shouldn't be embarrassed.”

Vegeta made to interrupt her but she silenced him with a single raised finger.

“I've had _so_ many x-rated dreams involving my friends,” Bulma paused, her eyes twinkling. “You've even made the occasional appearance,” she added playfully. Someone who didn't know any better might have even said she was flirting.

That seemed to pique his interest, and he continued to watch her from the corner of his eye. Perhaps it was born from some sort of humiliated comradery, from being placed on an even battleground once more with her confession, because although his cheeks were still red he no longer seemed so awkward, so uncomfortably tense.

“Me? Really?” He asked, almost tentatively.

“Uhuh.” There was some truth in the statement, Vegeta _had_ made the occasional appearance in her nocturnal fantasies, but Bulma had spent the best years of her life surrounded by physically fit, achingly attractive, virile males, and so his fictional performance had been at least somewhat expected. She had merely taken it as a sign that their relationship had properly solidified, easy masturbation fodder being the defining feature of any true, honest friendship. At least, that was how she had come to finalise all the other friendships in her life.

“Tch. Lewd woman.”

Vegeta didn't gloat or preen at the revelation like most of her other friends would. Didn't mock her, didn't laugh at her. He just dwelled on it, chewing it over as the cogs visibly turned in his mind, and when he accepted what she had said he filed it away without another word.

Feeling bold, and confident that the mishap could finally be forgotten, Bulma moved to stand by his side, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. He let her, and when her hand snaked along his forearm until it found his own, he allowed their fingers to interlock with a small squeeze. A quick glance up at his face told her that he was flustered, still pink and avoiding her direct gaze now that she had instigated physical contact, but not against it. “So... you like Star Wars?”

“What?” Vegeta asked, swallowing hard while his free hand tightened on the railings.

“You responded to my Star Wars reference earlier,” Bulma clarified. Her thumb stroked a small circle onto the back of Vegeta's hand, and she admired the clash between his dark, rich skin, and the fragile paleness of her own.

“I used to watch the films with my br-- with someone I knew as a child. I think he rather liked the idea of space travel.”

She felt her curiosity surge, but she tamed it back. Asking for too much now would only do more damage than good. “That's cute.”

“Tch.” Despite his best efforts to sound annoyed, he couldn't force back the tiniest of smiles.

Chasing the interest like a rabid hound, Bulma nudged at the conversation, spoking it an attempt to stimulate the flames. “What did you think of the seventh one?”

Vegeta turned to face her, his brows cemented together in confusion. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and Bulma followed the motion with the swelling tide of his lips. “... _Seventh?_ ”

“Yeah. I can't remember what it's called, the one with the girl jedi.”

“I think we must be talking about two different things.” he said slowly, carefully. As though she were a child in need of teaching. “There are only _three_ Star Wars films.”

Bulma fell about laughing, using her freehand to wipe at a stray tear threatening to spill from the corner of her eye. “Oh. My. God. _Vegeta_. Did you spend the last twenty years under a rock? There's like a billion of those films now. Prequels, sequels, midquels. How do you not know this?”

“Pfft. It's because I have more important things to do with my time that laze about watching movies all day,” he grouched, trying to back away from her and her laughing.

She tugged on their conjoined hands, still grinning broadly, and despite the sour expression on his face he followed and allowed himself to be pulled about and manhandled. “Come on, Bad Man. Let's go home. Maybe I'll be able to find a copy of a few of the newer movies online and we can veg out on the sofa.”

Vegeta hesitated again for a moment, and when his eyes found hers they were strangely vulnerable. There was a brewing intensity hidden there that was almost childlike; the ghost of a creature hiding in the shadows of his impossibly dark irises, desperately clambering for an escape. His fingers twitched against hers, tightening their grip by a miniscule amount. Then, whatever war that had been raging inside him found it's victory, and he straightened his jaw.

“Whatever. But if they're shit you owe me one, Briefs.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters. With the insanity that was the last quarter of 2017, I wanted to give myself a break over the holiday period to enjoy Christmas and my birthday. To be honest, I really needed the break and I feel a lot more refreshed now I've had a little while to just sit back and take care of myself. 
> 
> I sympathise a lot with Bulma in this chapter, if only because I had to deal with a myriad of shitty, entitled people in the service industry when I was her age, and it often drove me insane. For those of you asking for more Raditz, you won't be disappointed. He will be back, because I myself am a die hard Raditz fan. He's just off doing some other plot related things right now. 
> 
> I'd just like to say how incredibly touched I am by how many of you reached out to check on me/offered your support. I currently have 2 different surgeries scheduled for the next few months, and my fiancé is going to be undergoing physiotherapy for the foreseeable future. There's still a _lot_ going on, especially in terms of sorting out the medical insurance after the accident, but it means so much to me that so many of you have taken the time - both on here and on tumblr - to check up on me and send me your well wishes. Hopefully soon we'll both be back to full health. 
> 
> As usual you can find me on ρατrϵon (where I post updates 24-48 hours in advance) and Ko-Fi, as well as on Tumblr.


	7. Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta is forced to re-evaluate his friendship with Bulma, and Bulma is forced to confront the ghosts of her old life in a manner that's less than pleasant.

Bulma was becoming a problem, which was understandable, given the fact her role in his life had been nothing short of volcanic since their first encounter.

Vegeta had, unfortunately, had another dream about her. This time there had been no exposition, no pretence of innocence before they inevitably got down to the dirty; they were just fucking on the fire escape, onlookers be damned, apparently, with Dream Bulma making the most delicious noises he could have possibly imagined. His memory supplied the more complicated audio for the sake of realism, a deep, throaty ' _you may be the devil, but I am something far worse'_ stored away without his knowledge, rattling his spine and rushing blood to his groin. As they had done during their real-life tête-à-têteon the fire escape, Dream Bulma's eyes reflected the promise of an unexplored galaxy that Awake Vegeta had wanted to rampage across, as Dream Vegeta worked her body until the tell-tale pull in his abdominals and the rushing watercolour of his fantasies wrenched him into consciousness.

Though through sheer luck, and an uncharacteristic break from the shit that they universe usually hurled his way, this dream didn't result in embarrassing wayward erections in the bed of it's desired host.

Simply a wayward erection, alone, in the safety of his own bed (and, later, his palm).

With little else to do Vegeta had quite literally taken matters into his own hands by way of amendment, trying desperately to ignore the fact that it was still _her_ that his mind wandered to even in consciousness and with the aid of actual porn.

He could argue that he was simply a hot-blooded, heterosexual male with eyes, and that she was an attractive, heterosexual female with a soft, small little body so _of course_ she'd stir some sort of primal reaction. She was the only woman he sustained any regular contact with, and so when conjuring appropriate masturbation fodder it went without saying that she'd be at the top of the list. The fact that there was some rapidly growing, almost tumorous part of him screeching that perhaps his attraction to her was born out of something a little more serious was something he wilfully ignored.

_You may be the devil, but I am something far worse._

Even when his mind, treacherous as it was, wandered off to contemplate what life would be like if he: a) didn't sully his already blackened soul beyond redemption and repair for a living, and b) had the opportunity to replace Raditz or Goku in the snapshots lining her bedroom walls.

He just pushed it all aside.

 _That girl I saw you talkin' to by the gates, she in your class? You like her, right?_  
Fuck off, Nappa.   
No shame in it. She's real pretty. All sweet 'n soft. Ain't never had a girlfriend before, have ya?  
You're far more disposable than I am. You should probably keep that in mind.  
Never gonna with that attitude.

It meant nothing.

So her jumping him the moment he had exited his private chambers, dragging him into the living room by the hand that had not so long ago been wrapped around his cock while he imagined what the suck and pull of her mouth would feel like, hadn't been ideal. But it was how he found himself lazing on the couch as Bulma held up various hangers of material, demanding he tell her exactly what he thought of them as if he actually cared about what she wore.

Bulma threw down a red satin number with an exaggerated huff, rooting through the pile (seemingly her entire wardrobe, just redistributed to the old, tattered armchair) and replaced it with some purple, cotton-like piece.

“What about this one?” she asked, frowning at the fabric.

Vegeta gave the garment an arbitrary glance before shrugging. “I don't care.”

“Hmm, okay...” The purple option was also swiftly abandoned, lost in the growing slush pile, and it was swiftly exchanged for a _thing_ of yellow and black that reminded him of the fading bruises still lingering on his face and mid-eighties science fiction. “...what about this one?”

“I could not give less of a shit,” he huffed, his jaw tightening. In response Bulma's face fell and Vegeta's stomach flipped guiltily. He swallowed, and much more softly added, “why are we even doing this?”

“Because I'm going out tonight and my ex is going to be there.”

“So?”

“ _So_ I want to look hotter than him, dingus.”

“Tch.” Vegeta had been vaguely aware of the fact that Bulma had some sort of upcoming social event, mostly because she hadn't stopped bitching about it since their little trip to the seaside. She had tried, incredibly unsuccessfully, to rope him into coming along with the promise of delicious, expensive food, but not even that could tempt him. Sat in a room full strangers with Goku and his wife hardly felt like his idea of fun. That being said, 'fun' wasn't a word that was in regular rotation when it came to Vegeta's personal vernacular. “I had meant why ask _me_ for fashion advice?”

“Because you're a _guy,_ and I need to know whether or not I'm going to drive a guy wild and make him wish he could still bend me over the nearest table and have his way with me, or if I'm going to just blend into the background like a good little church mouse,” Bulma said, throwing down the garment in her hands and continuing to root through her belongings.

She pulled out a slinky silver number that seemed as though it would cover very little. The crease between her brows and the scrunching of her nose suggested to Vegeta that she was unsatisfied with her findings, despite the fact the mere sight of it stirred something vaguely resembling her desired response from him, but he kept his mouth shut to comply with demands of self-preservation. “He won the break up and I need to, I don't know, _fix_ that. He has his shit together and his dream career, and I...” Bulma trailed off again, gesturing around the room.

Vegeta rolled his eyes.

Incensed by his insolence, Bulma dropped the dress and crossed her arms over her chest with the stomp of her foot, her lips pursing together unhappily. The look she shot Vegeta was absolutely toxic, and he braced himself for the oncoming assault. Surprisingly, it never came. Instead, she changed tactics.

“I knew I should have asked _Raditz_ for help. He's _much better_ at this kind of thing.”

Offended, and quite frankly appalled at the idea of Raditz besting him in any scenario, Vegeta straightened up and paid decidedly more attention to the amateur fashion show being conducted in their living room.

“If you're aim is to elevate yourself above him you'll have to do more than simply look good. Be aloof, answer questions vaguely and with a sense of composed regality. Crush his confidence with your own.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Bulma laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and shooting Vegeta a fond look that made his heart plummet into the depths of his stomach. “I'm still going to make sure I look hot, though. My ex is a very... visual person when it comes to the opposite sex.” She made a circle with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand and proceeded to repeatedly penetrate it with the index finger of her right.

Vegeta felt himself grow hot at the suggestion, and jerked his head away in a pitiful attempt to disguise the blush engulfing his face. “Vulgar woman.”

“Stuck up prude,” Bulma said, punctuating the statement with the poking of her tongue between her lips.

He pointedly ignored her for several minutes, pulling his phone from his pocket and staring at the screen with feigned interest, scrolling through the Saiyan group chat as if anything that Nappa and Raditz said held any value at all.

He felt the sofa dip under her weight, the brush of her knee against his arm when she folded her legs under herself, and the rustle of the old, battered cushions as she clutched them to her chest.

“Come with me? Please?” she asked softly, fidgeting uncomfortably by his side. Without even looking at her he could so clearly see in his mind the way that Bulma chewed at her bottom lip, as she always did whenever she was feeling apprehensive; the unhappy pull of her mouth a tell that a lifetime of acting lessons would likely never completely rid her of.

“I don't believe that I signed anything that required me to attend social events as a pre-requisite to my living here,” he grouched.

Bulma sighed, the sound muffled by the material she had evidently pressed to her mouth. “I'm not asking you as my roommate, I'm asking you as my friend.”

At that he turned to look at her, his throat constricting when he found her to be gazing at him intently from behind a cushion. Vegeta's resolve wavered, and for the tiniest fraction of a second, he considered her offer. It felt impossible to deny her anything when she looked at him like that, that manipulative fucking bitch. He could feel a warmth prickling at his skin, blooming not just through the widening capillaries in his face, but from between his pectorals, though he couldn't pinpoint why.

“You don't need me,” he managed to husk out.

“No, I don't,” Bulma agreed, “but I _want_ you to come with me.”

Vegeta's mouth became dry, and he struggled to formulate a response. A huge, _embarrassingly huge_ , part of him wanted to throw away his obligations, throw away his pride, and join her side for the evening. Fuck Frieza, fuck the gaggle of morons who would inevitably grind his nerves into the ground before the night was out. Fuck everything that wasn't her, that wasn't the first fucking friend he'd made in his lifetime that wasn't just a member of some gang that he had to stick with for the sake of survival.

Then reality licked at the heel of his boots, reminding Vegeta of the price he'd have to pay. Disobeying Frieza meant punishments. Punishments meant open wounds and lack of pay. Lack of pay meant another hurdle in his race to freedom. And no freedom meant a lifetime of servitude.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't risk the rest of his life for the sake of a single evening with a woman who had only been in his life for a tiny blip of time in the grand scheme of things. “I can't,” he said quietly. “I have to work.”

Bulma pulled a face, her nose scrunching and upper lip twitching. “What _kind_ of work?”

“The kind that's only up for discussion between myself and my employer.”

“Don't be a dick. I worry about you”

“You're worried about me? Why the fuck would you be worried about me?”

“I don't want you to get hurt again,” she admitted quietly, reaching out to brush her fingers along his cheekbones, following the shadow of his still not yet completely faded bruises. Her touch was cool against his skin, reminiscent of a welcomed breeze on a hot summer's day. The flesh was no longer so tender, no longer in need of her care, and yet he couldn't help but drift momentarily back to the night she had so sweetly patched him up.

The morning wood debacle was, of course, edited out for the sake of his pride.

Vegeta smiled, just enough to reassure her and cease her complaining, and absolutely _not_ because she was touching him. “Woman, trust me, _I_ won't be the one getting hurt tonight.”

“Yeah, that worries me too.”

Bulma dropped her hand and he shuddered at the loss of contact. The fact that she so clearly disapproved of what he did made him feel hot and angry, uncomfortably so, though he struggled to articulate why. But the way her gaze dropped, and the anxious knotting of her fingers against the fabric of the cushion on her lap, made his stomach lurch.

He had never cared about the morality of what he did to survive, sometimes he even enjoyed turning years of pent up aggression out on a random person – beating them bloody just as his tormenters had done to him. Her judgement made Vegeta feel truly ashamed of who he was and what he did, something he had never experienced before, and he hated her for making him feel this way. For providing him with a weakness.

After all, letting the brat escape ,and the beating that particular act of insubordination had resulted in had been largely because of her influence.

Fighting back the overwhelming urge to scream in her face, Vegeta pushed himself off of the couch and away from her, stalking towards the kitchenette to swipe a protein shake from the fridge and guzzle it greedily. He slammed the now empty bottle onto the counter when he was finished, the plastic rattled noisily, spinning on its heel for several seconds before toppling over and rolling away. He made no effort to catch it, or clean up the trail of residual liquid it left in its wake, too busy curling and uncurling his fist in an attempt to re-direct the sudden surge of emotion.

The bottle was picked up and righted, and the hand that swept up the mess it made with an old dish cloth forced Vegeta to look up and meet her gaze.

“You're not a bad person, you know,” Bulma said with a sigh, throwing the cloth into the sink. “I've never thought you were a bad person. A colossal douche and eternal pain in my ass, yes. Especially when we first met. But a bad person? Never.”

How the conversation had shifted from stylistic choices to his dubious ethics, Vegeta would never know, but the shifting tides of their exchange felt simultaneously so natural, and yet so foreign, that he yet again failed to understand it.

“And how the fuck would you know if I'm a bad person?” he snapped back, hot and indignant.

“You feel too much. You're too angry at the world and the cards you've been dealt with to be bad. If you were a bad person you'd just roll with the punches and enjoy the life you lead,” Bulma smiled then, reaching over the the counter to tap Vegeta's nose with the tip of her index finger. “Plus you do things just to make me happy. And you haven't killed me for being the world's most annoying roommate. Yet.”

Vegeta recoiled from the touch, staggering backwards and almost losing his footing. He could no longer breathe, a positively sweltering heat stealing the oxygen from his lungs and slowly suffocating him. “I do _not_ do things just to make you happy,” he said, making a token effort to defend himself before asphyxiation claimed him.

Sensing his weakness, and closing in on it like a goddamn bird of prey with an unsuspecting mouse, Bulma leapt up onto the counter, crossing her legs in one smooth motion and cupping her chin in her palm, her elbow propped up on her knee. Blue eyes narrowed to a squint, and the lopsided baring of her teeth would have been considered threatening in the animal kingdom. “You hang out with my friends, you make me feel better when my day sucks, you drive me to auditions. Do I need to go on?”

The bombshell cracked and combusted in the messy inner-workings of his mind, spraying blood and brain matter here, there and everywhere as atoms split and rearranged themselves in a way that didn't make sense, but never claimed to in the first place.

Laid out as it was the truth was impossible to convincingly deny, even to himself. A woman that he less-than-hated (which ranked her so low on Vegeta's social scale of 'I Hate This Person, But Not Enough To Kill' to 'One Day This Mother Fucker Is Going To Die By My Hand' that she didn't even make the final cut) only a handful of months ago had somehow inexplicably interwoven the importance of her happiness with his own, so much so that he had pushed beyond the stringent self-inflicted guidelines of what was and was not comfortable, simply to appease her.

Vegeta didn't believe in magic, but if he did he would have seriously considered the possibility of Bulma being a witch. Or some sort of demon. One or the other.

Perhaps both.

The length of his silence spoke for him as it stretched on, and when Bulma began to snicker into her palm Vegeta felt the tips of his ears fall victim the the febrile heat that had long since claimed the rest of his face.

He turned sharply on his heal, not caring to grab his freshly polished boots from their spot against the living room wall as he passed them. He'd go to work barefoot if it meant avoiding this particular conversation. “S-shut up. Just go back to choosing something to whore yourself out in. I need to go to work.”

Vegeta stormed out of the living room, trying hard not to show just how much the raucous echo of laughter emanating from the woman still perched on the kitchen counter affected him.

\--------

“'Getes, you look like shit,” Raditz said dramatically as he strode through the door, throwing himself down into an overstuffed, leather-worn Chesterfield, swinging a booted foot over the side of the armrest. His knuckles were pulpy and crusted with blood that may or not have been his own, it was impossible to tell, and he was sporting a nasty gash on the underside of his jaw, but the grin that stretched from ear to ear spilled the story of his victory. Raditz was bristling with adrenaline, the high of a successful night coursing through his veins and numbing the pain that would inevitably hit him like a freight train in the morning.

Vegeta's lip curled up, and he abandoned the counterfeit money he had been counting to grab Raditz's ankle and force it off of the chair. “You know what Raditz, one day you're going to die, and I'm never going to have to hear that goddamn nickname again, and that day is going to be the happiest day of my fucking life.”

From the corner of the room, where he had occupied himself with writing up the reports that Frieza insisted upon, Nappa snorted, earning a sharp glare from both Raditz and Vegeta.

“You're being exceptionally cunt-y today. What's got you so riled up? Or are you just practicing for the cunt-lympics?”

“I suggest you mind your tongue and remember your place,” Vegeta snapped, agitation mounting. “Where the hell have you been anyway? You left us to deal with the grunt work while you were off doing God knows what.”

Raditz shrugged. “Cui 'temporarily relocated' me.”

“You stupid fucker. You don't take orders from Cui, you take orders from me.”

“Cui said Lord Frieza okay-ed it. I wasn't going to say no to the big boss,” Raditz explained, rooting in his pockets for the old, beat up tobacco tin that had once (if what Raditz said could ever be taken as truth) belonged to his grandfather, to roll himself a joint. Before Vegeta could react Nappa was already on his feet and snatching it out of Raditz's hand with a growled out ' _not now'_. Raditz pouted, but didn't protest the issue, instead continuing with his excuse. “I didn't want to get killed because of playground politics, so I just did what he asked of me.”

“And why exactly does Cui have to commandeer _my_ men? What happened to the worthless rats in his employ?”

“Didn't you hear?” Nappa interjected, still scowling at Raditz. “Orlen and Namole kicked the bucket. Incident with the Red Ribbon gang gone wrong. Boss had to get the Ginyus in to patch things up.”

“Insufferable idiots.” He himself unsure as to whether he meant the men who had prematurely met their makers, or the circus troupe that had, somehow, cemented their places atop the Frieza Force food chain.

“Didn't you try out for the Ginyu Force when you were a kid?” Raditz asked, the smug grin on his face increasing its slapability beyond its usual limitations.

Vegeta cringed at the memory, cracking an open palm against Raditz's shoulder to compensate for the deep shade of red sweeping its way up his neck. “Only because the Ginyus are elite, and get paid as such. Upon realising that I'm better off alone, without their silly theatrics, I changed my mind.”

Nappa grinned, unafraid of Vegeta's ire. “I remember him practicin' his moves after hours. Vegeta is surprisingly nimble when it comes to dancin'.”

Raditz, though still rubbing his shoulder from the earlier assault, burst out into a fit of laughter, his free hand balled into a fist and thumping against the arm of the chair. “I think I'd actually kill a guy for the chance to see _Vegeta_ dance.”

“I'm pretty sure Beauty actually did,” Nappa said, rubbing his chin. “When he found out 'bout Vegeta's interest in applyin' he raided the CCTV. Think he kicked one of the 'interns' who tried to stop him down the stairs, and the poor bastard hit his head too hard. Never found the footage neither. Little Prince couldn't have been no older than fourteen and he already knew how to clean up after himself like a pro.”

While Nappa and Raditz laughed to themselves, Vegeta felt his stomach twist. His recollection of that time period and his caretaker's were clearly galaxies apart.

Vegeta remembered Zarbon's ridicule all too well, and the way it had quickly evolved into rage upon learning that he had nothing tangible to taunt Vegeta with. By that point Zarbon's strength no longer so drastically eclipsed his own, granting him some degree of safety, but the rations that were supposed to be Vegeta's food throughout the school week had mysteriously up and vanished, and for nearly a month he was forced to survive on one meal a day.

By the end of the final week, after losing a significant amount of weight and running on fumes as he continued to be overworked by his school-work-life balance, he'd been jumped on the way home by a gang of men who looked suspiciously like key players in the Cold empire. Errant strands of green and white hair peaking from beneath hoods and balaclavas having caught his attention, as steel toe boots collided with his rib cage and fell down on his leg with a heavy, sickening crack.

Weakened by systematic starvation, and unable to fight back and properly defend himself, Vegeta had ended up with a splintered femur, several bruised ribs, and a concussion.

While Jeice ended up securing _his_ spot in the Ginyu force before Vegeta had even been discharged from hospital.

_Get in my way again, mate, and you're actually gonna be a vegetable. Got it?_

The medic who drove him to the hospital had blasted R.E.M's _Everybody Hurts_ on repeat from the moment the cool sting of an intravenous catheter being threaded into his veins had forced him to take note of something other than the screaming of his lungs, to the moment the ambulance pulled up in its parking bay and he was offloaded onto waiting doctors.

The warbled opening ' _when your day is long'_ still made his teeth grit.

Shaking his head as if he could physically rid himself of a memory by doing so, like jiggling a Magic 8 Ball until it spat out the desired response, Vegeta reached for his thermos of coffee and unscrewed the cap. Thanks to Bulma insistence that he broaden his caffeinated horizons beyond black coffee (or a flat white, if he was feeling adventurous), he had discovered a love of steamed whole milk cortados with a dash of almond syrup, which she supplied in exchange for Vegeta occasionally taxiing her to and from auditions.

Give and take.

He took a gulp to wash the bitter taste of the past from his mouth, only slightly disappointed with the now tepid liquid, the thermos it had been stored in only capable of keeping it hot for so long.

The conversation seemed to have rolled on while Vegeta was taking a less than pleasant stroll down memory lane; Raditz quietly recounting the events of his day so far (including an detailed description of the blood splatter that he'd caused when he'd clocked someone on the side of the head that looked _exactly_ like the Holy Mother), while Nappa double and triple checked the paperwork he'd spent the evening slaving over.

Draining the remnants of the coffee, Vegeta finished up counting the bundles - bitter about the grunt work that he'd been forced to lower himself to, but relieved that any chatter regarding him and his short-lived infatuation with the Ginyus had died quickly. He hoped to wrap things up just as swiftly, to finish the night's tasks so he could hit the gym for a few hours and assuage the tightness in his navel that had reared its ugly head while speaking to Bulma, and failed to dissipate in the hours since.

Life, as usual, had other plans for Vegeta.

There was no avoiding Bulma Briefs. Probably largely in part due to the fact that she was, or in the very least had at one point been, the richest woman in the world, heir to the DinoCap legacy. A real, bona fide genius who had helped her father design and build some of the most influential technologies the world had ever seen.

Likely also largely due to the fact that she had thrown that all away to live in dressed up squalor (which he now shared with her), and make coffees for entitled hipsters (which he now drank), and hang out with members of the most prolific gang in the country (which he was a part of).

_I know you're datin' that girl. Planthorr said he saw ya sneakin' around the mall with her a few weeks back. You gonna bring her home so I can meet her?  
Drop it, Nappa.  
I'm just sayin', I could spruce the place up for you. Make it look all nice. I know things aren't normal, but it's healthy at your age to--   
\--I'm **not** bringing her home with me. I'm bringing **anyone** home with me. No one fucking wants me, and it's fine. I'm **fine**. I don't give a shit. But for the love of Christ, shut the fuck up about it.   
Vegeta, I...  
_ __**Please.**

Whether able to admit it or not, Vegeta thought about her almost as often as he saw her, which is why it shouldn't have come as such a huge surprise when the idea of escaping Bulma's ghost was rapidly shut down by the introduction of, well, more Bulma.

She was like a fucking virus.

With a deep, rumbling belly-laugh Nappa held up Raditz's opened tobacco tin, a polaroid picture of Bulma and Raditz taped messily onto the inside. They were at some sort of party, if the red solo cups in their hands and the flush of their cheeks were anything to go by, one of Raditz's oversized, apish arms wrapped around her shoulders and forcing her against his side. Something akin to possessiveness unfurled within the pit of Vegeta's stomach to rear its gnarled head, and he suddenly despised Raditz without good reason.

Nappa tapped the back of one thick, calloused finger against the glossy print, commanding Raditz's attention. The younger man paled, sitting up straighter in the Chesterfield and twisting the hem of his black t-shirt in his hands. Nappa, ever the embarrassing pseudo-father archetype, cuffed one of his giant hands against Raditz's shoulder. “So, after all this time you're still sweet on Vegeta's girl? I think she's a lost cause, Radi. Give it up ”

Vegeta gagged, he couldn't help himself. Try as he might to suppress the involuntary response and the downright hideous noise he made with it, he lacked the speed necessary to kill it. “My what? I'm not... _she's_ not..”

Nappa laughed harder, and with the jeering redirected from him and his stupid unrequited love, Raditz joined in, though not before reaching up to snatch the tobacco tin from Nappa, now that the older man was suitably distracted, and tucking safely away again.

“Oh come on. You live with 'er, you go all white knight defending her honour. She's your girl, and shit-for-brains over here probably ain't got a chance when he's competing with _The Prince_ ,” Nappa said, his lopsided smirk infinitely more punchable than Raditz's. Vegeta wanted to slam his fist against Nappa's teeth until they were splintered shards accidentally swallowed with bloody gums that would never fully heal, continuing to twinge beneath dentures when coming face to face with hot coffee. Unaware of Vegeta's burning desire to pulverise his incisors (or perhaps aware, but feeling brave and stupid), Nappa let out a low whistle and pressed on. “Though I can see why he still tries. She is a hot piece of ass. How old is she, Radi?”

Raditz snorted. “Too young for you, old man.”

“Fuck off. I'm in my prime.”

“Tell that to your hair,” Raditz clasped his jaw with one of his hands and roughly manoeuvred it from side to side until it popped loudly. He exhaled in relief, and for good measure began cracking his knuckles, starting with his thumb. He was onto his ring finger when he started speaking again. “Besides, as you said, she's _Getes' girl._ ”

“She's _not_ my girl,” Vegeta ground out, anger overwhelming embarrassment. “I live with her, that is all. She is an acquaintance at _best_. Just because you two inbreds think almost exclusively with your cocks doesn't mean I'm limited to such primal desires.”

“You're human too, Getes, try as you might to pretend otherwise,” Raditz waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and a person with a sense of humour might have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Vegeta, however, was lacking in the funny bone department. “Besides, a little birdie, a.k.a my much less handsome younger brother, tells me that a certain blue haired little hottie has a pretty big soft spot for you. She always was a sucker for a bad boy.”

_You act so high and mighty, but we all know you go around begging for it from the Cold's girls._

For a split second Vegeta contemplated what was said with a sharp inhale and visceral incredulity that he tried (much, _much_ harder this time) not to let show. The fact that Bulma apparently talked about him to her best friend, infantile and inconsequential as it ultimately was, sparked a prickly, not wholly unpalatable tightening of Vegeta's core; the muscles tight and scarred and overworked, but responsive nonetheless.

He couldn't puzzle out what that actually meant for long, though. He was, after all, destined for a life of humiliation and torture.

“What's this? Vegeta is involved with a woman?” Every head in the room snapped up at the new voice, and he whipped around to find Zarbon leaning in the doorway, smirking wickedly. He bared his teeth a little more upon noticing he'd finally grabbed Vegeta's attention, pushing himself off of the frame and taking a single step into the room. “Is she blind or otherwise visually impaired? Or is she the kind of woman whose time can be bought for the correct price?”

Nappa and Raditz shut up, the air crackled with the promise of a battle nearly two decades in the making, and Vegeta glared. His body instinctually readied itself for a fight, his fists curled against opposing elbows as his arms hooked over his chest, quadriceps coiled tight. “What the hell are you doing here, Zarbon?”

Zarbon flicked his braid over his shoulder with a pretentious toss of his head, arms extended with palms up in poorly feigned innocence. “Well, you see, I graciously volunteered to collect the counterfeit money that you were entrusted with at the behest of Lord Frieza, when my ears happened to start burning. I simply had to wait to reveal myself until tales of our childhood escapades had finished being told, the trip down memory lane was just far too delightful to cut short.”

As far as the hierarchy within the Frieza Force went, Zarbon outranked not just the leader of the Saiyan faction, but almost the Cold fleet under Frieza's command in its entirety. But the Saiyan's allegiance lay solely with their leader; Raditz's eyes flicked towards Vegeta, awaiting instruction, and Nappa's adam's apple bobbed, both men tense and preparing themselves for the worst. While Vegeta remained statuesque, Zarbon missed neither movement from his subordinates and stepped into the room with a deliberate boldness.

“Then I hear this delicious little snippet of gossip regarding our dear Prince and his apparent love interest, and I simply could not contain my curiosity any longer. A friend of Raditz's brother, I believe?”

“What of it, Zarbon?” Vegeta asked, raising his chin in defiance.

“Isn't that the same little skirt that you very nearly initiated a war between the Usagi and Colds over? It would seem like you do harbour a fondness for her after all. Though it does seem you're not the only one,” Zarbon eyed Raditz as he took another, far more deliberate, step forward. “If I recall you very nearly broke rank and challenged Dodoria because of her too; we were beginning to wonder if you were fostering a coup d'état in her honour.”

Vegeta snorted. “Perhaps your intel is wrong. I challenged Dodoria because he and I both know that his usefulness to Frieza is rapidly coming to an end. Whereas _I_ continue to surpass every limitation placed in my way.”

“Wasn't it just last week that you were outwitted by a child? Hardly breaking through barriers in that regard.”

“A misunderstanding. I'd hold your tongue if I were you, when I outrank you you'll be praying to the gods for mercy.”

“So, it's a position of power that you desire? Funny, I heard on the grapevine that you still insist on entertaining that rather pathetic notion of so-called freedom. Then again, a good lay is never cheap, and money and a new title are _sure_ to impress. Perhaps I'll have to pay her a visit to truly understand what you see in her. Or, more accurately, what she could ever see in you,” Zarbon said, adjusting the face of his Tag Heuer so that it sat more neatly in line with the dip of his wrist. “Who knows, if she meets my high standards perhaps I could convince you to share her. She already seems to be making the rounds here anyway. Call it a gesture of goodwill among fellow _elite._ ”

Vegeta understood that taking the bait and reacting to Zarbon's thinly veiled threats meant endangering Bulma and making her a target, but that didn't stop the icy rush of pure loathing that reared up with a very real risk of overspill. He had very few things in his life that he genuinely wished to protect, be it in terms of honour or physically. He cared very little for his father, but would preserve the memory of his mother and brother eternally. He had practically zero possessions, especially ones of sentimental value, but his pride was something he often valued more than his life. He had no family left, but he did have Bulma. New and fresh in his life as she was, she was a fixture that he wanted to keep safe and at least somewhat permanent.

She was, after all, the first creature to show him genuine kindness since he'd been ripped from the arms of his mother.

In any case he was sure the threat was hollow; Zarbon's predilections didn't usually involve pale blue nymphs, but he couldn't put it past the bastard to do something to Bulma out of pure spite. The mere thought of that wretched lizard touching her – of _any_ man like him touching her – forced bile to rise to the back of his throat.

“It was just a joke, sir,” Raditz said quickly, his complexion pallid and dark eyes tight with concern. It occurred to Vegeta then that Raditz was probably the only other creature to understand the weight of the threat, and who felt the overwhelming need to keep this particular woman safe from it. Raditz swallowed loudly and attempted a humourless laugh that fell flat, but his efforts were admirable. “We were just trying to piss Vegeta off. Nothing more. ”

“Alas, so it was too good to be true,” Zarbon, ever eager to exploit his flair for pageantry, slapped his hand to his sternum, bared thanks to the unfastened top buttons of his silk shirt. The collar around his neck, a gaudy black and gold fetish piece with the word 'BEAUTY' dangling from the loop, jingled in response. Something in the almost dangerous twinkle in his eyes suggested that he didn't believe Raditz, but Vegeta tried not to dwell on Zarbon's suspicion for too long. Doing so would only serve to add to the swell of anxiety lapping at his insides. “No need to fret, Prince, I'm sure one day a woman with low enough standards will come along and take pity on you. If not, I hear that the brothels under Frieza's management offer excellent discount rates for staff. Though, I'm sure you're already aware of _that_ , aren't you?”

“As is Dodoria, though he is far more familiar with such establishments. I heard he likes to vet the fresh meat before they officially, ahem, assume their positions,” Vegeta countered. He looked Zarbon up and down with a sneer, tapping the toe of his boot against the floor. “Clearly his standards aren't as high as yours, else he wouldn't feel the need to fuck anything and everything with a pulse. Then again, your tastes always did differ enormously.”

“And what do _you_ know of my tastes?” Zarbon's lips pursed, agitation mounting. Vegeta swore he could almost see the vein in the other man's neck throb.

“Thankfully very little. Just enough to know that this _woman_ you're suddenly so curious about wouldn't appeal to you. Nor would your particular tastes appeal to your esteemed _colleague._ ”

“I never realised just how much attention you paid us, Vegeta. I'm _flattered,_ ” His words came out just a little too sharply, too venomously, shattering the cool facade.

“Don't let it go to your head. Your theatrics are simply difficult to avoid,” Vegeta tossed the last few stacks of money into the bundle and lifted it from the table, quickly hiding a smirk when he noticed the involuntary twitch of Zarbon's eye, and the setting of the other man's jaw. “Tell Frieza it's all there and accounted for. If there's nothing else for you to do here, might I ask that you leave. You're wasting my time.”

“Come now, why the hostility? We're all brothers within the Frieza Force, are we not?” Zarbon said as he snatched the bag from Vegeta.

_Don't be shy, baby. His name is Tarble. Here, if you come up and sit next to me, you can hold him. Just be gentle, okay? He's very tiny and delicate._

_Yes, mama._

_That's my sweet boy._

His self-satisfied smirk threatened to evolve into a full blown smile. “A little sibling rivalry is healthy.”

“Indeed.”

“It's not all that uncommon for younger siblings to aim to usurp their brother's, is it? After all, there can only be one crown _prince_.”

Zarbon's jaw fell open as though he intended to add more to the conversation, but he silenced himself with a quick snap of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, turning sharply on his heel as he did so. “Get back to work. Lord Frieza won't be too happy if he hears that his precious little monkey has been slacking off.”

“If that's the case I'd be sure to omit the part where you spent several minutes listening to gossip instead of working. You know how temperamental Frieza can be and I would hate for you to be on the receiving end of that temper.”

Zarbon stiffened, and though he had his back to the room with his face shielded, Vegeta could so easily envision the narrowing of amber eyes and the flaring of nostrils. “How very considerate of you,” Zarbon eventually replied, voice tight. “It would seem that a good fuck has done wonders for your personality.”

The jab was weak and cheap, with no real weight behind it. It was a frankly pitiful attempt at regaining the upper hand. Vegeta had won, and even with the last frail attempts at dragging Bulma into the fray, Zarbon was unable to claw back his victory. Not so long ago there would have been no way that he could have talked back to Zarbon without serious repercussions, the aching of his bones after a late night or when the bitter chill of winter seeped into them a testament to acts of rebellion gone wrong. The shifting power dynamics sent a thrill rushing down Vegeta's spine, pooling at the base of his back like gasoline awaiting the careless toss of a lit match in its direction so it could burst outwards and consume.

Before Vegeta could bask in his small triumph and gloat, his nemesis fully withdrew, stomping down through the labyrinth of hallways to either his own office of Frieza's, counterfeit cash in hand. A small audience had gathered outside, various minions without import abandoning their designated tasks to eavesdrop on the quarrels between the golden children of Frieza's army. Those who failed to scatter when Zarbon had stormed out leapt out of their skin when they spotted Vegeta, eyes cast on their hands or on the floor – anywhere but his direction – fearing what might happen if they were caught looking his way.

“Is it really such a good idea to taunt him like that?” Nappa asked quietly, shoulders stiff and brows creased.

The sound of his former mentor's voice wrenched him back into the room, and he watched his pride and satisfaction flutter away like curled up embers carried on the breeze. In its place white hot anger sizzled to life, uncontained and all consuming. Unwilling to provide Frieza's minions with further entertainment, Vegeta slammed the office door shut, caging the three men in the room as the wood squealed and trembled in its frame.

“Idiots,” Vegeta hissed, looking past Nappa to point an accusatory finger in Raditz's direction. “You know what he is capable of, what _Frieza_ is capable of, and you _still_ put the woman in danger with your loud mouth.”

Raditz raised his hands defensively, shrinking back as though the finger pointed his way was capable of obliterating him with a lazy flick. .“Vegeta, I--”

The growl that ripped forth from Vegeta's throat silenced his companion.“Save it. You care for her, correct? You want to play at happy families with her as though a piece of scum such of yourself is worthy of happiness? Well your little act of rebellion very nearly put a target on her head, all because you wanted to piss around and piss me off. How are you going to explain that fuck up to her family and her friends when they're visiting her in the hospital? Or hauled down to the morgue to identify her body?”

“I didn't mean to--”

“Shut the fuck up, I am not done,” Vegeta snapped. He could feel the rage mounting inside of him; a wild, untamed animal that screamed and rampaged, fuelled by smoking lungs and the last shattered remnants of a forgotten world. He knew his voice would carry throughout the building, that word of his temper tantrum would inevitably get back to Zarbon and as a consequence he would lose his upper hand, but in that moment Vegeta couldn't bring himself to care. “You may think you're funny in your attempts to rile me up or embarrass me, but you're just proving yourself to be as worthless and pathetic as my father.”

Vegeta's fist met one of the walls with a great crack, a small dust cloud forming around his knuckles as plaster chips rained down onto his boots. “You are the ones who made the decision, through your own selfish stupidity, to join this world. Some of us don't have a fucking choice, we're just collateral damage. _She_ will end up as collateral damage. Do you know what will happen to her if Frieza sees her as a weak spot and decides to exploit her for compensation?”

Raditz shook his head dumbly, unable to avoid culpability, and instead just waiting for Vegeta to finish his harsh vivisection. His shoulders trembled slightly, enough to shatter any illusion of calm, but he was yet to piss himself in fear as many others had (and would) when on the receiving end of one of Vegeta's tirades.

It was almost admirable.

Almost.

“If she's _really_ lucky she just inherits your debts, becomes one of Frieza's girls to work it off. _If she's lucky._ If she's not lucky...” Vegeta trailed off, unable to bring himself to breathe the words to life. The implication hung in the air between the men, a poisonous cloud that threatened to liquify their insides if inhaled.

“Kid, we weren't thinkin',” Nappa said, so quietly it was barely more than a whisper. A hand, big and calloused, came to rest on Vegeta's forearm, gently encouraging it to fall at his side so that his fist may be removed from the wall. “What your dad did was shitty. Real fuckin' shitty. But Radi ain't your dad. He ain't going to let something like that, like what happened to _you_ , happen to someone you care about.”

“I do _not_ care about that woman,” Vegeta barked defensively, ripping his arm from Nappa's hold. The accusation was physically painful, and he almost would have preferred it if Nappa had simply socked him in the face with all his might. His heart was pounding furiously in his chest, his lungs shrieking at him as though he were a drowning man starved of oxygen. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so sick, not in recent years at least, only the memory of his father's hands leaving his small shoulders for the last time inspired a similar sense of dread and nausea. He imagined Bulma being pawned off to Frieza in a similar fashion, what her dark blue eyes would look like wide with fear, how her little body would tremble and buckle under the weight of abandonment and betrayal.

The world shrank until it was suffocatingly small, immobilising him as it wrapped around his limbs and constricted. He felt overwrought with anger and something else he couldn't name no matter how hard he tried to grasp at it. “I don't care about her,” he tried again, attempting to steady his hands and steady his voice. “It's just a matter of pride. If something were to happen to her because of that fuck-up,” Vegeta sneered, nodding his head towards Raditz once again, “it would reflect badly on me. I am responsible for you all.”

Nappa smiled, though it was lacking, ushering with his right hand for Raditz to relocate himself to the back of the room, while placing his left on the back of Vegeta's neck, pulling him towards the chairs and forcing him to sit.

“If you say so, kid.”

The sympathetic tone felt like sandpaper on his soul, aggravating an already festering wound, so much so that it forced Vegeta to instinctively recoil. He hated them all. Frieza, Zarbon, Nappa, Raditz, his father. He wanted to beat his knuckles bloody against the ribs of some poor schmuck who had failed to pay up on time; _needed_ to crush his foot against a squirming, pathetic worm until he felt a tibia crack beneath his heel.

He need to break something. Or someone.

Without warning Vegeta shoved Nappa aside, stalking across the room to boot the office door open, leaving an imprint of his foot in the now splintered wood. Satisfied with the destruction, Vegeta returned to his desk to root through the drawer, extracting his gun and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing, 'Getes?” Raditz asked, still rooted to the spot, still trembling in submission.

“If you value your life you won't call me that again tonight,” Vegeta growled in response, mentally mapping out the best route (otherwise known as the path with the least amount of other human beings to run into) to the peons in reconnaissance . There had to be _someone_ out there that had wronged Frieza enough to warrant a near death beating, right? The Colds had so many fingers in so many different pots, it would be practically impossible to go a full day without someone somewhere needing a desperate reminder as to why no-one messed with the vast Cold Empire. “We're going to get some _real_ work done.”

Nappa and Raditz exchanged an uncertain look, the older man drawing his fingers through his moustache before finally relenting with a heavy sigh.

“Sure, whatever, but I'm drivin', 'kay?”

\--------

Bulma checked her appearance one last time in the mirror, steadying herself with deep breath and smoothing her dress out with her hands. She had eventually settled on the classic little black dress, a silk relic from her days as millionaire socialite, with a lace trim. Low cut enough to draw Yamcha's wandering eye down a familiar path that would, hopefully, distract him enough to prevent him from asking too many questions about her disappointing career prospects.

The front door clicked as someone unlocked it, and for a second Bulma hoped that Vegeta had returned home from work early to offer her a fresh flush of confidence. She had quickly grown to rely on him for his support, enjoying the tightly guarded fragility that he demonstrated towards her, and the anxiety twisting and coiling around her muscles demanded one of his harshly bit-out pep talks to dissipate. She also hoped that his premature return marked a change of heart, and that he'd be joining her in tonight's little outing; with Vegeta on side she'd feel far less shitty about her current situation and she might actually be able to enjoy herself.

Luck was not on Bulma's side, and instead the wayward crop of jet black hair that poked through the door resembled carrot tops rather than fire. Goku, who had somehow tucked himself into a royal blue dress shirt with buttons that threatened to pop if he so much as breathed too deeply, and a pair of charcoal pants, tossed his keys on the countertop.

“Wow, Bulma, you look great!” he said cheerily, reaching out a hand to ruffle her perfectly curled hair. She ducked before he could muss it up too badly, swinging the back of her hand against his chest with a a playful thump and laughing to herself when he good-naturedly pretended the strike did some damage. “You ready to go? Chi Chi is waitin' in the cab downstairs.”

That was the million dollar question; _was_ she ready? It had been months since she and Yamcha last spoke face to face, an awkward one night stand widening the chasm that had formed between them since their break-up. Following said night of misplaced passions, the frequency in which he would join their game-slash-movie-slash-take-out nights dwindled from a trickle to a drip. The cold splash of his company became even less frequent from the moment Tien had been on the receiving end of a temporary embargo, having lost his greatest ally.

That would mean conversation would go beyond the ego-stroking congratulatory fodder tossed Yamcha's way, and devolve into 'catching up'. Which meant publicly admitting not just to others, but to herself, that the last few months, no, _years,_ had been a total write-off and all that had changed was the length of her hair and the number of zeros in her bank account.

“I don't think this is such a good idea...” Bulma began, gnawing on her bottom lip.

“Why?”

Bulma sighed, wringing her hands together and feeling foolish. “I had another shitty audition a few days ago, and I'm not sure I can handle being back home celebrating Yamcha's dream career. Does that make me a bad person?”

Goku shrugged, and one of his top buttons twitched under the strain. “Makes ya human, that's all.”

“Do you think he'd mind if I skipped out on this one?”

Goku looked displeased, his normally sweet, serene face pulled tight. “Well, yeah. This is a big deal for Yamcha, he's been workin' on this since we were kids. He'd be pretty devastated if ya didn't come.”

Bulma huffed in her agreement, feeling faintly embarrassed. Though, even with her pride somewhat bruised, she had to admit that simply not turning up would be unkind to Yamcha, and even throughout all the ups and downs that followed their relationship, he had always been more than understanding and supportive towards her and her dreams.

In fact, as awkward as things had been between them, he had still been one of her main cheerleaders after her departure from Capsule Corp., and she had slept in his bed of his one room apartment while he chivalrously took the sofa for the first few weeks until she found a place of her own. She was pretty sure that she still had a few of his shirts in her closet, not remnants from their relationship, but as borrowed items she had worn when foresight had prevented her from packing enough of her own clothes prior to her initial dramatic storm out.

It had been Yamcha, along with Goku, who had gone back to Capsule Corp. on her behalf to retrieve the remains of her belongings.

And Yamcha had been the one who kick-started the weekly get togethers to help her take her mind off of the drastically changed dynamics of her life, and to remind Bulma that she had a family of her own making that cared for her.

“Yeah, you're right,” Bulma sighed. “Stop being so good and moral, you're making me feel bad.”

At that Goku just laughed, taking her by the shoulders and ushering her out of the apartment before she could change her mind again and protest the matter further.

As promised Chi Chi was in the back of the cab touching up her makeup with a compact mirror, wearing the dress that Goku had collected a few days earlier. She'd worn her hair down for once, and it framed her face nicely, making her look less like a wife-and-mother and more like a carefree, early twenty-something.

Her eyebrows lifted when she spotted Bulma, not quite judgemental but definitely a close relative. She leaned open and opened the car door for her from the inside, still eyeing her friend up and down even as she took her place in the back of the taxi. “You look...”

Bulma smirked. “I know.”

Goku settled in the front seat next to the drive and resumed whatever conversation the pair had started on the way to her place with the purr of the engine. Chi Chi shoved her compact back into her purse, making the obligatory small talk about the weather ( _'it's still so damn cold for this time of year, right?'_ ) and bitching about gentrification ( _'$4 for a single apple just because it's apparently some fancy-shmacy organic, pesticide free, cancer curing,_ _ **special**_ _apple. Where the hell have all the regular supermarkets gone? Damn hipsters and their stupid health food fads ruining it for the rest of us')_ , for which Bulma was oddly grateful.

“Is your dad watching Gohan?”

“Nah, we gave him the night off. We left him with Bardock and Gine,” Chi Chi replied, wincing slightly and unable to completely disguise the small downturn of her red lacquered lips.

Bulma knew all too well, having listened to rants about Bardock and Gine's parenting skills since before high-school graduation, nodding along and adding 'hmms' and 'ahhs' at the appropriate intervals, despite not really knowing or caring about the difference between the Ferber and Weissbluth methods, or the proper age to introduce a child to red meats in solid form (if it was to be introduced at all, the answer varied depending on which member of the Son family she asked). Chi Chi and her in-laws clashed on almost every major parenting decision, and they had a habit of smoking and swearing like troopers around the kid, much to Chi Chi's eternal annoyance. Bringing up the matter to Goku just prompted a recycled conversation about how they'd been like that throughout his childhood, and both him and Raditz turned out okay.

Teenage pregnancies and criminal affiliations aside, of course.

“And you're alright with that?” Bulma asked, glancing at Goku in the rearview mirror, her best friend too engrossed in conversation with the cab driver to notice. She speculated that the argument leading up to this decision must have been colossal, and she was glad that her apartment and their tiny bungalow in the Mount Paozu district were dived by a large stretch of city.

Chi Chi grinned, fiddling with her bangs impishly. “He promised he'd, uh, 'make it up to me'. His parents are having Gohan _all night_ , and it's been a long time since we played at --”

“No! Stop right there!” Bulma cut her friend off before she could finish, plugging her ears childishly with her fingers. “Ew, gross. I don't want to know about your upcoming night of Borroughsian-esque fetish play.”

Chi Chi hissed, slapping Bulma's thigh and looking pointedly at the other occupants of the vehicle. When she replied her voice was little more than an an angry whisper.“It is _not_ a fetish.”

“You bought a _tail._ Phil Collins basically serenades your sex life.”

“I think you're mixing canon.”

“Whatever. Call a spade a spade; simian role-play sex is still simian role-play sex, whatever way you spin it.”

“You should try it, maybe then you wouldn't be so judge-y.”

“Chi Chi, I don't even get to try _regular_ sex any more, let alone the freaky kind you and Goku are into.”

At that Chi Chi laughed, only attempting to stifle the sound when her husband craned his neck to look back at her with a raised brow. She replied seemingly telepathically, the barest twitching movements indicating communication, and when Goku turned back with a slight shrug, Chi Chi returned her attention to Bulma with a devilish glint in her eye. “I'm sure Yamcha will be in the mood to celebrate tonight if you're eager to end that dry spell.”

“Don't even finish that thought. Not all of us get the Disney treatment with our high school sweethearts.”

“Who's talking about the 'And They All Lived Happily Ever After'? You just need a happy ending _tonight_.”

Bulma groaned, rolling her eyes. “I'll keep that in mind.”

\--------

Tien and Chiaotzu had been stood waiting for them as the taxi pulled up, talking animatedly to Krillin about something or other, more than likely martial arts related, given the frantic gesturing of their hands. Maron, Krillin's on/off (though mostly the latter) girlfriend, had worn a look of pure, unfiltered boredom, her eyes having been glued to her phone screen as she'd tapped furiously, only pausing to take the occasional selfie.

The seven of them had made idle chit chat as they waited, and to Bulma's surprise Tien had been uncharacteristically enthusiastic, attempting to pull her to the side to _'talk to her about something important',_ though whatever he had needed to say had been cut short when they heard Yamcha's cocky cry of ' _oh, who's this handsome hunk approaching the crowd? Just the youngest star on the Taitan's roster this year, no big deal. Ladies, please, hold your applause._ '

Tien had forgotten about whatever it is he had been so desperate to say; Bulma and Yamcha had made eye contact, exchanged only somewhat awkward greetings with a kiss on each cheek, Yamcha lingering just a little too long so that the smell of his aftershave had stung her eyes, and that had been that.

The world kept turning.

Despite the reviews lauding it as the greatest venue to have ever graced the streets, The GR was like any other social hang-out in West City; uneconomical as it was swanky, with a pompous air of almost nihilistic elitism that was entirely undeserved. It's domed walls were framed in various shades of grey and black, with small, circular windows that were tinted red to match the plush (if not entirely impractical) carpet that lined most of the floor inside. They served hard liquor in test tubes and cocktails in modified bunsen burners, straws printed to resemble thermometers that they probably thought was edgy enough, had it not been for the fact that every mainstream bar outside of Central City had been doing the same thing for years. It boasted both a glorious, overpriced menu and the most fashionable of nightclubs, of which Yamcha had apparently reserved both for their exclusive, private use. Or, in the very least, they had the upper floors of the building entirely to themselves.

There seemed to be only two light settings, with half of the area they occupied (the bar and would-be dance floor) saturated in an ominous red glow, while the other half (the half they were going to be eating in) was brightly light by sterile, blindingly white bulbs. It reminded Bulma a little too much of the clinical walls and harsh lights of her father's laboratory, and even without the telltale 'CC' lacquered here and there it was obvious enough from the rounded structure, and the use of technologies that she herself had played a huge part in inventing, that the building had been designed and outfitted by the Capsule Corporation.

She tried not to think about it, tried not to dwell on the fact that she was sat in a physical manifestation of all the insecurities that had plagued her in recent months so that she could just enjoy herself, but the universe was making it mighty fucking difficult for her. The food had been nothing exciting; the soup was watery and the meat a little dry for Bulma's liking, the presentation far too ostentatious for a chef who couldn't even prepare the beef to her liking. But it was _free -_ as was the champagne that flowed freely with the recycled choruses of ' _To Yamcha!_ ' - so she couldn't really complain all that much.

The meal dragged on uncomfortably as Yamcha splurged details of his contract over desert, relishing in spouting off about the brilliant opportunity that had been gifted to him by the gods above, before the conversation devolved into tales of yesteryear, as though high school had been in another life-time, and not four years ago.

“And then Krillin _hits_ on him, thinking he's a chick!”

Even though the story having been told a million times before, and despite half of the group actually being present during the events of said story, the table erupted with the echo of hearty laughter, with the exception of Maron and Bulma, the former looking miserably bored.

“Really? You're never going to let me live that down, are you?” Krillin whined, ducking his head into his hands. “C'mon guys, I didn't know! It was an easy mistake to make.”

Maron offered her boyfriend a cursory chuckle, as flat and lifeless as the deadpan expression plastered on her face, far more interested in her phone and what it had to offer.

“Dude, I'm pretty sure you scarred poor Upa for life.”

“Now you're just exaggerating.”

Normally Bulma enjoyed verbal dalliances with the past, therapeutic in their own way in helping her reaffirm bonds that were thicker than blood. But today she felt unsettled, had for a while now, and so their tales just felt tired and over-worn – grating rather than soothing.

A tantrum brewed beneath the surface of her skin, a prickly captious itch that longed for a wrong word or look to be cast in her direction so that she may sulkily stamp her foot and whinge without additional judgement. It was kept at bay only by the free flowing booze that had accompanied her as her unofficial date for the evening, though she knew it had the potential to backfire explosively should her tongue become too loose. Bulma hoped, for the preservation of her dignity, as well as the sake of her friends', that she would be able to behave herself.

The conversation drifted on to another old tale, this time involving some silly (and retrospectively dangerous) cross country road trip they had taken together as teenagers, and Bulma's patience wavered. She bit back the urge to shriek and wail at the people she cared most about, knowing deep in her heart that she was being more than irrational, that she was being selfish and spoilt and teetering on the edge of cruel in her desire to silence the happy babblings filling the room around her. It was simply the culmination of too many bad experiences, too many rejections, too many doors slammed (figuratively and literally) in her face, and instead of finding solace in her friends, she instead found herself on the border of hating them because _they_ were sure-footedly stepping into adulthood just knowing what to do, their hopes and dreams clicking into place, while she floundered and failed just to stay afloat.

“Remember that adrenaline junkie phase we went through? Whose bright idea was it to try and scale an active volcano?”

“Dude, those search and rescue guys were _piiiissed_.”

“No shit, we were jackass kids who nearly got ourselves killed just so we could show off.”

“Huh, I miss those days.”

Bulma considered texting Raditz but thought better than it; doing so would likely result in word getting back to Goku and the others that she was distracted during their big night out, and despite her foul mood she didn't want to ruin things for her closest friends.

She could always message Vegeta, couldn't she? While in the grand scheme of things they barely knew each other, at least when compared to the decade strong bonds established around the table, they seemed to inhabit their own little nebulous bubble; pocketed away in the confines of their shared apartment existed a world that only they knew. They were so similar in their own, weird way. Both worn down by the lives they lived, off kilter as the orbited their peers. He would understand her, right?

Attempting to be far more covert than Maron, Bulma reached into her purse and plucked out her phone, sitting it on her lap as she glanced around the table to make sure the coast was clear. Yamcha and Tien were bickering about the specifics of this particular story; Tien arguing that _he_ did most of the work, while Yamcha insisted that _he_ was the hero. Chiaotzu and Krillin were acting as cheerleaders for either side, arguing their points with circumstantial evidence that wouldn't even fly in a high school debate club.

With the attention definitely away from her, Bulma began to type.

> _Ever felt the irrational need to go postal on all of your friends? [devil face] [devil face]_

The response was almost immediate; Bulma had barely picked up her fork to resume half-heartedly picking at her strawberry cheesecake when she felt her phone vibrate against her thigh.

_> Every day. I take it things aren't going well?_

The conversation drifted to a high school martial arts tournament that the boys and Chi Chi had taken part in, and the group animatedly discussed the mechanics of their individual fights between bites of chocolate tart and crème brûlée. Bulma sipped at her champagne and smile.

_> [sad face] There's not enough alcohol in the world to help me get through this._

_> That bad?_

_> Yup!! [sad face][sad face] I wish I was at home hanging out with you_

The text message felt oddly risky. Vegeta wasn't one for affectionate displays, not like Raditz or Goku, and she considered how crushed she would feel if he wrote back something cruel and mean, even knowing that 'asshole' was his default preset. Was it foolish of her to hope for something more? Or did it just inflate her ego to think that she could possibly turn that brash, foul-mouthed asshole who had ruined her day and her uniform into a roided-up teddy bear?

_Vegeta's not one of your lab experiments. It's not fair to mess with him in the hope that he'll yield a result that like if you just add the right ingredients._

_I'm **not** trying to change him. I'm just... giving him a polish. Bringing all the good bits to the surface._

_**Liar.** He's a distraction because your life is going down the toilet. Remember that time you thought Yamcha was cheating on you so you spent six weeks in the lab working on a way to increase the capacity of DinoCaps while making the capsules themselves smaller and lighter? This is the same. _

_That was all theoretical. Besides, it didn't even work._

_**Exactly.** Vegeta may not be aluminium phosphide, but he's capable of being just as volatile._

_Why am I even having this conversation with myself?_

_Because you're drunk and you're trying to delay actually sending him that text._

Bulma glanced up for guidance, eyes searching immediately for Goku, but he was unavailable, too busy shovelling his _multiple_ desserts into his mouth to join _any_ conversation. Summoning all her courage, and using alcohol to bolster her nerves in preparation for such an act of valour, Bulma hit send. She held her breath as three little dots informed her that Vegeta was already formulating a response.

_> Me too. _

She felt the corners of her mouth hook up in response, and she had to press her palm to her lips in order to disguise the (quite frankly goofy) grin that was widening with every passing second. Her pulse quickened, and Bulma felt almost giddy – especially considering the stark contrast between the pleasant rush that was currently sweeping through her, and the bristling anxiety that had swamped her only moments before. She was buzzed, pleasantly so, but she couldn't be sure that it was just from the alcohol.

What did that even mean?

Still smiling into her hand, Bulma's thumb hovered over the keyboard, ghosting across letters as they formulated and abandoned potential replies in quick succession.

Maybe she could convince him to blow off work after all? He could drive by and pick her up, and they could hit up the little 24-hour-deli downtown that did the _best_ meatball subs, go home and binge watch whatever crap was on TV, or play video games with a couple of beers and _maybe_ a glass of wine if Bulma felt like splurging. Her happiness was worth a small charge to her already dangerously-close-to-maxed-out credit card, wasn't it?

“So, Bulma, tell us about this new roommate of yours,” Krillin asked the question before she could put her plan into action, and she dropped her phone into her bag as though it were capable of burning her. It felt more like an accusation, and Bulma sat slack jawed as she tried to work out just exactly _how_ Krillin had riffled through her private thoughts like that and casually put them on display.

“Uhhh,” Bulma scrambled and reached for her glass, downing its contents in a desperate attempt to buy some time before answering properly, still wary of Krillin and his apparent telekinetic abilities.

“You have a new roommate?” Yamcha added with a frown. “Since when?”

“Since _someone_ scared away my old one,” Bulma said pointedly staring at Tien and trying to offload some of the stifling embarrassment that had so suddenly swept her up. She assaulted a passing waiter, thrusting her now empty champagne flute at him in a silent plea for a refill. The waiter obliged, and, after observing Bulma for a few seconds, left the bottle with her. Which probably wasn't the most encouraging sign.

Tien shared a look with Chiaotzu, the latter offering his best friend a small nod of encouragement, before he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Actually Bulma, I wanted to talk to you about that...”

She definitely wasn't drunk enough to sit through another one of Tien's attempts at an apology. Not yet, anyway. “Save it, I've heard it all before.”

“I really think you'll want to hear this.”

“This roommate of yours... what does he look like? Is he cute?” Maron asked, cutting Tien off, her interest in the get-together suddenly renewed. Yamcha very nearly spat out his drink, only barely managing to catch himself with an undignified splutter into the palm of his hand. He spent the next several seconds choking while everyone's eyes, including his own, shifted uncomfortably to Krillin. Who looked absolutely mortified by the turn of events.

“Cute? Uh, you're asking me if he's cute? Ummm...” Bulma frowned, attempting to string together an acceptable response, but failing miserably. Vegeta was a lot of things, but was cute one of them?

With Bulma unable to formulate a coherent sentence, and eager to offer poor Krillin a lifeline, Chi Chi answered for her. “If you consider a receding hairline and a bad attitude attractive. Sure he's got all those muscles, but so does my Goku and _he's_ much better looking and not nearly so _short_.”

The urge to defend Vegeta was overwhelming, overshadowing the confusion and embarrassment. “He does _not_ have a receding hairline, it's just a prominent widow's peak. And he's _shy_. He's a nice guy once you get to know him.”

“Well _I_ didn't think much of him. I don't know how you can stand to live with him. He's so rude and grumpy.”

“C'mon, Chi Chi. He wasn't that bad, I liked him!” Goku pipped up. “He looks super strong, and like he really knows how to fight. I'm gonna try an' convince him to come down to the dojo some time!”

“He probably knows how to fight because he's a no good low-life.”

“That's a little mean. He's Raditz's buddy after all.”

“Exactly. And that brother of yours is also a delinquent.”

Bulma's phone vibrated again, but she was too distracted by the back-and-forth that had sparked up between husband and wife, her stomach knotting and writhing uneasily, to check it. Maybe she _was_ already drunk enough for that conversation with Tien. She suddenly regretted every glass of wine and champagne and that sharp, tarty lemon _stuff_ she'd been offered at the beginning of the night. She considered the possibility of barfing over the forgotten desserts still littering the table, but decided against it.

_You're an actress, damn it. **Act** more sober._

“Seriously, how come I didn't know you had a new roommate?” Yamcha's voice helped pull Bulma back down to reality, and she blinked to find him leaning over plates and cutlery, chest practically pressed against the table. “I only saw your mom last week and she seemed to think you were living by yourself, asked me to check up on you. I mean I said it was fine because Goku and the others are _always_ at your place, but I guess if you're living with someone I don't need to bother now. Unless you'd _like_ me to come over and hang out, that is.”

Bulma's blood ran cold, and she struggled to reconcile with what she had just heard. “Hold up, you still talk to my mom?”

The lighthearted bickering between Goku and Chi Chi came to an immediate halt, the latter's jaw slack. Chiaotzu actually squeaked, clamping his hands over his mouth to conceal the sound. Tien visibly cringed, shaking his head almost as if he couldn't believe what Yamcha had just said. Krillin let out a small groan as his palms swept over his face.

For the first time that evening the table fell completely silent, and it was worse than anything Bulma had imagined in the run up to their get together.

Yamcha looked uncomfortable, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Kinda? I mean, not _regularly_. She just likes to check in sometimes. You know what she's like.”

“Huh,” Bulma said, brain till racing to catch up. The cool, quick slap of betrayal was finally starting to make its sting known, and she could feel the tantrum that had been brewing since she'd first stepped outside her apartment rear its ugly head.

“Don't be mad. Your mom and dad just want to know you're okay. You haven't even replied to them in months.”

And there it was.

“And you know _why_ that is!” Bulma felt herself explode, hands balled into fists and crashing down before she could even consciously dictate the movement, her voice rising several octaves until it threatened to devolve into unintelligible screeching. “Stop acting like they're god-tier parents, Yamcha. When was the last time they visited Tights? Where was their concern when I was a kid? They didn't even care when you, me and Goku went travelling for f _our whole months_. We were _sixteen_ , anything could have happened to us. Hell, look at all the shit that _did_ happen to us, you've been bragging about it all night. Then they gave me this choice, the company or my dream, like just because I was _good_ at something I _had_ to do it forever, and I lost everything. That's not normal, Yamcha.”

“Come on, they just want to know how you're doing. We all do, you don't tell us anything any more,” Yamcha said, his arms raised up in front of him defensively. He had bore the brunt of her anger many times over the years, but it had been a long time since he was on the receiving end of her temper.

“Wrong! I don't tell _you_ anything anymore. I can't believe you'd do this to me. You of all people know what I went through when I left Capsule Corporation.”

“I know, and what they did sucked, but they still love you. Don't be mad!”

“Don't be mad?” Bulma laughed bitterly to herself. She could feel herself losing control, could feel the familiar, treacherous sting of tears and the husky cracking of her voice. “You don't want me to be mad? I thought I could trust you, but instead I find out your palling around with my mom.”

“You can,” he replied quickly. “You _can_ trust me. I'm sorry, B.”

“Fine, I forgive you.” Her bottom lip trembled and she felt a tear roll down her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her hand, ignoring the way it shook. Anger had given way to grief, black and coiled tightly around her chest, and that in turn was bleeding into a numb nothingness that made her feel far too fragile. Bulma needed to get out, get some fresh air, fearing she might actually suffocate if she didn't. “Congratulations, Yamcha. Don't let me ruin your big night.”

“Bulma...”

“I'm going for a cigarette,” she grabbed her purse, slinging it over her shoulder. The legs of Goku's chair squealed against tile as he pushed back from the table, rising to his feet to follow. “No one follow me,” Bulma said pointedly, a flush of guilt at least making her feel _something_ when his face fell. Far more gently she added, “please.”

To Bulma's relief Goku didn't press the issue. With six pairs of eyes fixed squarely on her, she took her bag and the bottle of champagne, and left.

\--------

Girls tittered beneath her feet as they flirted with the doorman, trying to exchange pretty words for entry into the part of the GR still open for the public. The doorman played along, playing the girls in the process, but not once did he let any of them in.

Bulma held her unsmoked cigarette in her hands and stared at it, rotating it three-hundred-and-sixty degrees as though it would somehow provide her with the answers she desperately needed to questions she was still unsure how to word, let alone ask.

Nearly a full hour had passed since her less than graceful retreat from the meal, and she had spent most of it wallowing, alone, on the fire escape, listening to the hustle and bustle of the city. Goku had, to his credit, made an effort to come and check on her at minute seventeen, but she hurried him away with the promise that she would return when she felt ready.

The night had been doomed from the start, she had known it all along, but she had always just assumed that it would be her directionless lifestyle and lack of solid career plan that would ruin it for her. She never imagined it falling apart so quickly and so intensely because of a secretive relationship between Yamcha and her parents. It felt like a joke that she was the butt of, keeping a watchful eye on the poor little rich girl who was only testing the waters of Regular Life, waiting for her to mess up enough to go running back to mommy and daddy for help.

She hated that she felt that way too.

She just wanted to go home. Not to Capsule Corp, not to her mother and father (even though she missed them so terribly that she was almost _envious_ of Yamcha for getting to spend time with them), but to her tiny little apartment that smelt of coffee beans and artificial vanilla. She could be sat on her own fire escape, unbothered by the outside world, drinking hot coco and actually _smoking_ her cigarette, and feeling safe and warm and wanted. The apartment was hers, and she'd struggled for it, and sure she needed Launch and Vegeta to help make rent, but they were hers too, in a strange way. A family she had pieced together through wanted ads and shared acquaintances, but a family all the same.

Until Launch up and left.

Knowing she had probably used up her anti-social allowance, Bulma reluctantly braced herself for a return to the party, dreading the sympathetic looks and attempts at heartfelt chats that were soon to follow. She sighed, and tossed the cigarette over the side of the railings, pretending not to hear the annoyed shouting of the unlucky passer-by who had been struck by it.

Unsurprisingly, the night had moved on without her. Any awkwardness or ill feeling had dissipated with her departure, and the group were sprawled across the plush couches on the far end of the room, engrossed in conversation. No-one seemed to see her enter, purse in one hand, bottle in the other, so she bee-lined for the bar, requiring something much stronger to help her relax enough to actually go over there and _not_ care than an hour ago she'd made an ass out of herself.

“Can I help you?”

The barman was tall and lean, his eyes finely lined and hair slicked back stylishly. He had no doubt witnessed the debacle earlier in the evening, or in the very least heard about it from one of the waiters, so she decided against any attempts at flirting.

Bulma turned to watch her friends from over her shoulder, compelled to give them one last look before she came to a decision.

Chi Chi had her head rested against Goku's shoulder, one of his arms securely wrapped around her waist while his fingers traced small, unconscious patterns against her hip. They were talking to the others about something, occasionally nodding in agreement or adding a quip to the conversation. In a motion as fluid and natural as breathing Goku bent his head to press his lips atop Chi Chi's head, his eyes never breaking contact with Krillin as though he were totally unaware of the act of affection he had so publicly displayed. Chi Chi, seemingly equally as unconsciously, returned the favour by tilting her head to plant a kiss on the most immediately attainable part of his body, in this case his chest.

Goku's lips quirked somewhat at the gesture, but from what Bulma could see the conversation never faltered, nor did his (nor his wife's) focus waver. Their small acts of affection were merely the consequence of a love Bulma didn't truly understand.

She had never felt anything resembling jealousy towards her friends before. Admiration, yes, after-all they defied odds and stereotypes and snarky, judgemental comments with determination. Overwhelming swells of endearment, obviously; her brotherly love for Goku eclipsed her affection for her own biological sibling, and she often considered him the truest family member she had. Even the sharp rush of frustration and bubbling anger (ranging from the almost embittered disappoint in learning of her friends' inability to correctly use contraception, to a simple tantrum regarding various video game losses) was not unfamiliar to her in regards to Goku and Chi Chi.

But for the first time in as long as she had known either of them, Bulma felt envious of their relationship. Of the easiness of their bond, and how their love for one another seemed to fuel them not only as a couple, but as individuals alike. She hadn't felt anything like that since her breakup with Yamcha, and even then their relationship had felt more like a shallow wading pool in comparison to the roaring ocean that was Goku and Chi Chi.

They were all growing up, and one-by-one they were all taking running leaps over the precipice of the unknown, hurtling towards whatever lives awaited them while Bulma remained static. No, not even that; she was, through her own misguided actions, continuing to take steps backwards by dismantling the adulthood that had been so carefully set up for her (and which she had spent so many years being groomed towards), to chase a dream that remained beyond her grasp.

It felt as though she were being left behind while those around her outgrew her in every way, and she had no one to sweetly plant their lips against her forehead and tell her it was all going to be okay as she struggled against the tide.

All she had left was a dying dream and a grumpy roommate who would inevitably move on to bigger and better things without her too.

Aware she was staring, and feeling flustered and raw, Bulma turned her attention back to the barman in front of her. “It's an open bar, right?”

“Yeah, courtesy of the Taitans' next big star.”

“Awesome,” Bulma drained the remains of champagne in the bottle before setting it down to peruse the cocktail menu with interest, mostly focusing on colours rather than ingredients. “I'll take a 'Monkey Gland' please, but double the measures. And after that I want to try a 'Between The Sheets'.”

The barman raised a brow in judgement, but set to work with a standardised _'coming right up'._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the delay between chapters. I actually had one of my surgeries four weeks ago, and I'm having another one tomorrow so I've been incredibly busy recovering and preparing.
> 
> Again, I'm not so fond of this chapter (it played out much smoother in my head) but I think that's due to a combination of not being able to write/concentrate as well as I'd have liked to while recovering, and the fact that the next few chapters are much more… interesting and fun, so part of me wants to skip straight to the good part.
> 
> Thank you all again for your comments. I absolutely thrive off of reviews, and I adore reading your theories about specific characters and plot points (so please keep them coming ;) ). 
> 
> \--
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://www.myn-sii.tumblr.com/writing) (where I try and regularly post updates about chapters), ρατrϵon (where I post updates 24-48 hours in advance) and Ko-Fi. I also have a Spotify playlist specifically for this fic, though I'm unsure if anyone would actually want to listen to it (it's also mildly spoiler-y), so please let me know if that's something you might be interested in!


	8. Holistic Consequentialism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamcha's celebratory party takes an unexpected (read: completely expected) turn, and Vegeta struggles with the moral choices (or lack thereof) he is forced to make. 
> 
> NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters, I've been dealing with some pretty complicated health issues (which I explain better[ here](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/post/172621485341/test-results-so-ive-just-received-the-results-of)) and it's been eating up my free time. 
> 
> This chapter contains questionable/dubious consent.

“ _I don't know why I keep moving my body, I don't know if this is wrong or if it's right.  
I don't know if there's a beat, or something's taking over me, and I just know I feel so good tonight.”_

 _-_ La La Land (2016)

\--------

Perched on the edge of his bed, his knuckles bruised and beginning to swell despite having been carefully iced, Vegeta smirked to himself as he mulled over the night's events.

A group of reckless kids, some wanna-be up-starts eager to join the ranks of the Crusher Corps, had been caught selling blow on Frieza's turf. Whether they'd been acting on the orders of their boss, a renegade ex-mercenary by the name of Turles who had decided to try his hand at organised crime, or if stumbling into Cold territory had merely been an unhappy accident, it didn't really matter. What mattered was reinforcing the rules: making sure _everyone_ knew the hierarchy.

Sure, using the Saiyans to get the message across had been overkill, and normally a few of the lower ranked nobodies would be more than sufficient to pass along the memo that if you wanted to survive in this world you _don't_ cross a Cold. But the debacle with Zarbon had left a bad taste in Vegeta's mouth that could only be rinsed out with violence and bloodshed, so he didn't care about whether or not such work was beneath him, and only thought of the freeing rush that came with having someone's nose break against your fist.

Of course, the cash incentive was rewarding in and of itself, almost enough to make him forget about Raditz's big mouth and Zarbon's thinly veiled threats. Raditz and Nappa had pilfered the Crusher Corps' supply for themselves, and after a quick taste test to determine quality (“good, but not great”, “I'd give it a B- at best”) they'd decided to get high and waste the night away in one of the dingy bars down town that the pair apparently often frequented. An invitation had been extended Vegeta's way, either because chain of command dictated that their superior should be at least invited, or because Raditz wanted to make amends and thought a display of comradery would be enough to rectify a lifetime of mediocrity and disappointment.

Regardless of the reason Vegeta had declined with a brusque string of expletives and the vocal desire to use his salary on something worthwhile, rather than cheap company and cheaper booze under the canopy of flickering florescent lights and terrible remixes of 90's songs that he didn't know anyway.

Upon his return home to an empty apartment Vegeta had counted the money religiously, until he'd become intimately acquainted with the texture of each individual bill against the pads of his fingers. Then, as was his routine, he divided the money up: one pile dedicated to rent and bills, while the rest was jammed into the duffle bag hidden beneath his floorboards.

Vegeta had, somehow, resisted the urge to re-count the thousands of dollars stashed away in aforementioned bag, too spent and content to fall down _that_ rabbit hole, but satisfied with the way the seems strained against the weight of the cash.

He'd barely crawled into bed, just about making himself comfortable, when his phone began to ring.

He considered ignoring it, he was tired and finally felt at least somewhat at ease, but ignoring Frieza's demands was a rookie – and potentially fatal – mistake that he was unwilling to make. With a heavy sigh he groped around his nightstand for his cell phone, grouching to himself when something solid vibrated off of the surface and landed with a clunk onto the floor.

Vegeta swore, stretching his arm over the side of the bed and feeling along the wood until he found what he was looking for and pulling it up to eye level. The initial call cut off before he could answer it, but immediately started to buzz again with a sense of urgency that was unsettling. It was a number he didn't recognise, usually a signal that _something_ was going on that absolutely did not want to be traced.

Mentally bidding the prospect of a decent night's sleep goodbye, Vegeta answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“Hey Vegeta, it's Goku.”

The immediate sense of relief gave way to confusion. “What do _you_ want?”

There was a pause, followed by some scuffling and the muted sound of people talking. Vegeta thought he could hear Bulma, “Well... can ya come pick Bulma up?”

Zarbon's face, smug and calculating, hovered in the periphery of Vegeta's mind, and he shivered involuntarily. Surely Raditz and Nappa running their mouths wouldn't come back to bite them – and _her –_ so quickly? Or had some event had transpired, similar to her run-in with that horny Rabbit _filth_ , and this time he hadn't been there to protect her.

Trying to stifle his panic and maintain the facade of calm, Vegeta cleared his throat. “Did something happen with her? Is she okay?”

Goku laughed down the receiver, “She's had a little too much to drink and I wanna make sure she makes it back home okay. I'd throw her in a cab but I don' really trust her sense of direction right now.”

Vegeta considered the request, thumb stroking the back of his phone. He'd already knocked back two or three whiskeys to help trick his body into sleep, but, then again, he'd driven under far more stressful conditions while being strung out on far worse, so he considered himself more than fit to drive. Besides, he wasn't doing this for Goku, he was doing it for _Bulma._

With an agitated huff Vegeta pulled back the covers, the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he stuffed his feet into battered sneakers; not bothering to change from the threadbare joggers that he slept in. “Fine, text me the address. I'll be there when I can.”

“Thanks! You're a life saver!”

“Sure, whatever,” Vegeta replied, rolling his eyes. “Oh, and Kakarot?”

“Uhuh?”

“Delete my fucking number.”

\--------

Driving through the city at night with no morally questionable ulterior motives, no dossier filled with the name and whereabouts of rival gang members or pathetic saps late on their repayments, no stab wounds or bleeding accomplices, was a novelty.

When he was a kid, fresh after the exchange was made, Nappa would drive for hours around the suburbs of the city before winding through the busier roads in an effort to help Vegeta fall asleep. He would watch the lights outside blur and streak into one until his eyes burned, and still he would refuse to give in. Even when his head began to pound and he felt physically sick.

 _C'mon squirt, you can't fight it forever. Jus' close your eyes, I'll be right here._  
_Can't._  
 _And why's that?_  
 _I have to wait for my Papa to come back. If I fall asleep I'll miss him, and I'll be stuck here for forever._  
 _Shit, kid...I... I promise I'll wake ya up if...if he turns up. 'Kay?_

Eventually, through months of being beaten until he was unable to stand, Vegeta stopped protesting so violently against sleep, until one day Nappa no longer needed to carry an exhausted and trembling child to his car and buckle him in.

_He's really not coming back, is he?_

With his scraped knees hugged tightly against his chest, Vegeta had fallen asleep in his own bed, and as Nappa had pulled up the sheet and tucked it around the boy's shoulders, their late night road trips had come to an end.

The city had changed a lot since then.

Or, probably more accurately, Vegeta had changed a lot.

Gone were the florescent lights that through tired eyes melted together to form brilliant flashes of yellows and purples and blues that he could almost pretend had been born in the palms of his hands, like the superheroes in his bygone Sunday morning cartoons. In their place gaudy neon signs advertised 'OPEN 24/7', 'DINOCAPS SOLD HERE!', and 'BUYONEGETONEFREE', and the magic that had once helped pacify him was long gone.

As Vegeta drove through the seedier side of town, areas he knew like the scarred map work on the back of his hand, the signs evolved once more, this time into brightly lit silhouettes of provocatively posed women, grungy tattoo parlours with no care for sanitation, bars with a familiar 'FF' symbol tagged beneath their names, and both men and women in skimpy clothing loitering on sidewalks. Half of which were vaguely familiar.

He pulled to a stop at a red light just in time to see a woman, who was at least in her forties but dressed as though she were half her age, throw up in the gutter, teetering on her heels as vomit splashed on the toes of her shoes. Her companion, a large knuckle dragger with a nasty sneer, wrapped his hand around her already bruised forearm and hauled her away from the road and back towards the strip club she'd staggered from: 'Yunzabit Heights', notorious for its endless stream of miserable, undocumented girls and a hotspot for dealers.

Its unofficial title of 'the end of the Earth' was more than well deserved.

In the dark alleyway winding behind the building, barely touched by the stuttering streetlamp, slumped figures with tied off arms lay rotting against pissed-on walls and dumpsters, surrounded by dirty hypodermics and lighters; comfortable in being so exposed, knowing that the police never ventured into the no-go zones. After all, the only authority within the walls of their own private city were members of the Frieza Force elite, and they were the suppliers.

The traffic light flicked to green again, and their forms dissipated with the rolling purr of an engine.

The city no longer represented the quiet, stubborn hope of a young boy, but the decaying future of a fucked up adult who had been butchered beyond repair.

Vegeta was glad for her sake, as well as his own peace of mind, when the GPS led him out off the shadier and towards gentrified streets with marble white exteriors sporting hanging baskets and quaint little mail boxes bolted to the walls. The buildings become increasingly more cylindrical; the crack-dens and brothels gave way one by one to gin bars and niche little eateries, markers of Frieza's territories replaced by Capsule Corporation logos.

This was _Bulma's_ empire. Or, at least it had been, once upon a time.

It felt strange to think of it like that. To think of _her_ like that.

Bulma had essentially been the most powerful woman in the world, an unstoppable force whose power perhaps surpassed even Frieza's. Now she brewed coffee for minimum wage and bitched at Vegeta about leaving dishes in the sink to pile up.

It was fucking surreal.

The GR was easy enough to find, the large domed building dwarfing the ones surrounding it. Several people loitered in front of it, mostly just to smoke and chat; the night having dragged on long enough that the queues and crowds had already dispersed: either having gained access to the club or having given up and gone home.

Among those clinging closely to the walls of the club Goku was nowhere in sight, but Vegeta recognised two of the men from the photographs in Bulma's room – the short one and the hulking mound of muscle with the shaved head – talking to a dark haired man with prominent facial scars smoking a cigarette. Bulma was sat on a step between the men as they chatted, slumped forward with her head between her hands and her elbows on her knees, looking more pathetic than he ever thought her capable of.

Vegeta pulled up and parked, slamming the car door harder than he intended, gaining the attention of Bulma and her friends in the process. It took her a few seconds to recognise him, her face pinched together in a confused squint until she _finally_ recognised him and wobbled to her feet.

“You came!” Bulma squealed, her face lighting up in a manner that made the corners of Vegeta's mouth twitch upwards without permission. He killed the smile before it could widen, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he advanced slowly towards her, almost predatory in his movements, while Bulma staggered to meet him half-way. “I didn't think you would, but you came!”

Muscles glanced between her and Vegeta, and deciding he didn't entirely trust the latter, groped for her arm and tugged her back towards the 'safety' of their established group. Bulma turned sharply, or, at least as sharply as someone in her state could, and bit out something that Vegeta was unable to fully make out, but the tone suggested that whatever she said had been poisonous enough to force her captor to loosen his grip.

The smirk returned with a vengeance.

Tearing herself free from Muscles' hold, and dodging Short Ass and Scar Face as they attempted to wrangle her, Bulma wobbled towards Vegeta, breaking out into an awkward run that only came to an end when she slammed straight into him. Her ridiculous shoes gave her the advantage of height, now at least several inches taller than him, and her shoulder bumped awkwardly against his chin, but Vegeta took it without complaint.

“You're a mess,” Vegeta chided softly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to punctuate his point. He could feel Scar Face's eyes burning his flesh, but he chose to ignore it for now, instead concentrating on the drunk girl in front of him. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

“Vegeeetaaaa,” Bulma practically sang his name, her arms latching around his neck. She stumbled somewhat, her legs wobbling and threatening to give, so he wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. “Hang on, I'mma go get you a drink, then you can meet my friends!”

Bulma tried to unwind herself from Vegeta and head back inside, but his grip on her was iron clad and unyielding. When she failed to get anywhere her features twisted down in a confused sort of frown, but she seemed to lack the awareness and understanding to work out the source of her sudden immobilisation.

“I'm not interested in getting to know them,” Vegeta said quietly into her ear, conscious of the fact that Scar Face and Short Ass were now staring and talking amongst themselves, while Muscles had pulled out a phone and was talking to _someone,_ presumably about his sudden arrival. “We're going home.”

Bulma's brows furrowed sullenly and her lips pursed together in a pout. “But I don't wa--”

“So I'm guessing you're Bulma's new boyfriend?” Scar Face asked suddenly, cutting her off, his tone sour. His compatriots made a half-hearted attempt to talk him out of his frankly stupid endeavour, but he ignored them with a casual flick of his cigarette. He sized Vegeta up, eyes roaming downward to his pulpy, freshly beaten knuckles and lingering there. “I didn't think she was into short guys.”

Vegeta bristled. Normally he used his height, or lack thereof, to his advantage. Potential combatants underestimating his strength and ability, in spite of his clearly well muscled body, because he was on the... _shorter_ side. He'd grown to appreciate the look of shock and then _fear_ on the unfortunate fuck ups who had made the very, very dire mistake to miscalculate what he was capable of. It was almost cathartic. But something about this guy in particular sat poorly with Vegeta, and he felt his ire build rapidly. “The fuck is your problem?”

“Me? I don't have a problem. I'm just saying, I'm surprised that Bulma would even consider dating a guy like you.”

“I'm not her fucking boyfriend,” Vegeta grit out, forcing back the heat building and sweeping along the column of his throat. “I'm her roommate. Kakarot called me and asked me to collect her.”

“Who the hell is Kakarot?”

“I think he means Goku,” Short Ass chimed in, before cowering away from Vegeta's glare when it settled on him.

Bulma suddenly lost her footing, nearly toppling over and only saved by the arm anchored around her waist. Not trusting her to remain upright without assistance Vegeta changed his tactics, swooping her up into both arms so that she was pressed tightly against his chest. Bulma tittered to herself, and her arms wrapped around his neck loosely, but there was no strength in the gesture, its purpose entirely cosmetic.

“Why did you morons allow her to get herself into such a state? You're supposed to be her friends, aren't you?” Vegeta barked, his scowl deepening. “Do you care so little for her that you're willing to potentially endanger her through negligence?”

“Hey, it's not our fault. We didn't know she was going in that hard,” Scar Face fired back. “By the time we noticed she was already like this.”

“So you're little more than a bunch of self-absorbed imbeciles? Understood.”

“Goku's on his way now,” Muscles said, joining the conversation as he pocketed his phone. He placed a hand on Scar Face's shoulder, either as a warning to shut the fuck up and resist the urge to bite back, or as a symbol of comradery, it was impossible to tell. To Vegeta he added, “Goku confirmed that he did contact you, but I think we should wait until he's here until we allow you to just take our _vulnerable_ friend home with you.”

Vegeta snorted, but didn't disagree. “At least one of you has half a fucking brain.”

“Ignore Tien,” Bulma mumbled against his chest. “He's always grumpy. Doesn't trust Ray either.”

“Then he's certainly the most intelligent member of your social circle as Raditz should be trusted by absolutely no-one.”

“You're mean,” she grouched, nonetheless pressing herself further against Vegeta's body, closing her eyes and stifling a yawn. “But very warm... I'm tired.”

“Then shut the hell up and go to sleep.”

“M'kay.”

Vegeta tried to ignore the flare of exposed embarrassment that seized him; Bulma being so familiar with him in front of her friends stirring some vulnerable parasite within him. That, and her increased proximity and the weight of her little body in his arms brought some incredibly _vivid_ dreams to the forefront of his mind once again.

Perhaps it was because he'd been too busy feeling uncharacteristically melancholic about shit he couldn't fix, or perhaps it was because The Powers That Be had it in for him, and liked to screw him over at every opportunity, but Vegeta hadn't noticed her attire until now. Pressed up against him. In _public_.

Bulma's dress was sinfully low cut, a slippery black number that dipped almost to her navel. She was braless, because of _course_ she fucking was, a fact that became painfully apparent when the thin straps slipped from her delicate shoulders and threatened to let _everything_ spill out.

“So, you're Bulma's famous new roomie, huh?” Short Ass began, trying to ameliorate an already awkward situation by making maladroit smalltalk. Scar Face sulked, mouthing something that sure as hell looked like the words 'kiss ass', while Muscles – or Tien, as Bulma had called him – looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but here. Vegeta, despite being a generally apathetic creature fringing on the sociopathic, could empathise with that. “We've heard a lot about you.”

“Hn.”

Bulma shifted in his arms, toeing the line between blitzed-but-conscious and dead-to-the-world, and in doing so threatened to fully compromise what was little was left of her modesty. All she had to do was twist a little more and she'd slip out of her dress and they'd all be fucked. Panic, both at prospect of being an accidental accomplice to Bulma's flashing, and due to the rush of blood already making a b-line south at the mere thought of having his wet dreams being brought to life, set in and Vegeta found himself struggling to make a decision as to what to do now.

Quick thinking and the ability to make snap calls in the heat of the moment were skills that Vegeta prided himself on. Skills that had saved his life on countless occasions. Under fire or with the threat of a blade kissing his throat, Vegeta had been able to keep his head and rely on instinct and wit, always coming out on top. Yet he felt frazzled and vastly overwhelmed by his current situation, and the remaining blood that hadn't pooled in his groin ventured north to illuminate his face.

“You work with Goku's brother, right? Raditz sure is a lot to handle, I don't know how you get any work done around him. Or maybe he's different in a, uh, professional setting...” Short Ass was still babbling on inanely, seemingly lacking the brain cells required to take note of Vegeta's obvious distress.

“Shut the hell up,” Vegeta snapped, hot and overworked. Bulma giggled, peeling one eye open to peek up at him, as though she were aware that she was the source of Vegeta's shorter-than-usual temper and relishing in the fact.

Fucking bitch.

“Listen here man, I don't know who you think you are, but what gives you the right to talk to him like that?” Scar Face asked, bruising for a fight despite being sorely outmatched. He took a few steps forward, towering over Vegeta in an attempt to gain the upper hand, cocky and bold and devoid of any sense of self-preservation.

“ _Yamcha_ ,” Tien warned, clearly knowing better.

“Someone needs to teach this guy some manners.”

“Don't.”

“No, let him,” Vegeta said, a dangerous grin blossoming to life. He contemplated what he would do with Bulma, should the idiot in front of him persist in his efforts to get his ass beat, and decided that handing her over to Tien – at least temporarily – would likely be the best option. He seemed the most sensible of the three, and certainly the most adept, especially given the cowardly way Short Ass had shrank back. “I'm not opposed to having a little fun while running errands.”

“Vegeta!” Before the situation could escalate, Goku emerged from the GR doorway, his lips stained suspiciously red, his cheeks slightly flushed, but the dopey grin he wore was familiar and vexing. His eyes flicked between Vegeta and Scar Face, blowing out a small puff of air in annoyance, before he clapped the latter on the back in a friendly gesture that very nearly sent him flying. “Geeze, what's with the hostility guys?”

The budding fight spluttered towards death, with Scar Face muttering obscenities to himself before retreating back inside the club with his metaphorical tail flaccid between his legs. There was something satisfactory to be gained in the immediacy of the withdrawal, and the mumpish, defeated countenance. The final acetous look shot in Vegeta's direction was yet another victory, and he didn't try to contain the smirk that pulled at his lips.

Short Ass and Tien followed Scar Face obediently, only the latter making a small effort to bid Vegeta some sort of polite farewell, if only with the infinitesimal dip of his head.

“You took your sweet time,” Vegeta barked, shifting his weight to better accommodate the dead weight in his arms. “I've been working. I could be doing something far more beneficial with my time, rather than just waiting for you clowns to get your lives together.”

“Sorry 'bout that, Chi Chi wanted to talk to me about somethin'.”

Vegeta rolled his eyes, and for the first time he caught a glimpse of a potential similarity between the two Son brothers. Well, similarities beyond an alarming lack of social graces and those stupid, punchable faces. “What the hell happened here, Kakarot?”

Goku's expression shifted into something far more serious, almost somber. He glanced at Bulma, as if to gauge whether or not he could speak freely. Her eyes were heavy lidded, and she had yet to react to his arrival, allowing for the assumption that she was, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Something akin to possessiveness forced Vegeta to tighten his grip on her in response.

“I think she's just strugglin' to adjust,” Goku finally said, voice uncharacteristically low.

“Adjust to what exactly?”

“Floatin'.”

“Moron, stop talking in riddles. My patience is wearing thin.”

“I've known Bulma a long time. She's reckless, but she likes to be in control. Kinda like my Chi Chi,” Goku paused, and stretched out his hand to affectionately pat Bulma's head. “It's hard on her when she's not. Y'know, in control I mean. 'Specially when she's around people who pretend they are. Bein' back here can be tough, and somethin' happened tonight that she didn't like. When I'm not feelin' right, I fight and train. Chi Chi bakes. Bulma just did things her way.”

He could understand Bulma's desire to drink away her sorrows, even if he didn't know the specifics. Intoxication is better than annihilation, and whilst drowning in a drunken stupor there’s at least some sort of nothingness that all humans secretly crave. Alcohol allows senses to be dulled and distorted, and suddenly the world isn’t such a shitty place, because the only worry is whether or not you’re going to vomit up your own insides as you pour more liquor down your gullet. The troubles of the day are pushed to the back of your mind, and for brief moments you’re trapped under the dizzying spell of booze.

It was... freeing.

At the mention of her name Bulma roused a little, blinking sleepily before stretching, very kicking Vegeta in the nuts in the process. He hissed, ducking his body away, and glaring at her as punishment, but she brushed it off with a salacious smirk.

“Oh hey, Goku, when'd you get here?”

“A little while ago,” Goku replied softly, continuing to pat Bulma's head. An irrational, infantile fragment of Vegeta's mind pressured him to pull her from the clowns reach and clasp her tightly to his chest. “I'ma go back inside now, 'kay? Chi Chi'll be pissed if I leave her too long, and Vegeta is here now so you're in good hands.”

On his own volition retracted his hand and thrust them instead into his trouser pockets. “Thanks again for comin' out here so late, Vegeta. I owe ya one.”

Vegeta merely grunted in response. He couldn't help but wonder what exactly it was that had escalated Bulma's feelings of inadequacy to this point, what could have possibly driven her to make such a sceptical of herself. He had hoped the idiot would enlighten him, but whether it due to some sort of adamantine sense of loyalty that prevented him from spilling the beans, ignorance, or the fact that Bulma was now much more awake and bothering to string sentences together once again, Goku remained silent.

“Well, see ya, guys!”

“Have fun with the monkey sex tonight!” Bulma cried out cheerfully, far too loudly. Her vulgarity knowing no bounds, Bulma proceeded

While Vegeta felt his skin immediately betray him by turning a violent shade of red, Goku just laughed Bulma's vulgar comment off. “Stay safe, Bulma! Chi Chi said she'll call ya in the mornin' to check up on you!”

With that he turned on his heal and headed back into the club, his gait slightly too stiff and uncomfortable, presumably due to the clothes, but the childish turn of his heal still present.

Leaving Bulma and Vegeta (relatively, given their current location) alone.

“' _Cause you'll be in my heart, yes, you'll be in my heart_ ,” Bulma began to sing as she stretched out her arm towards Goku's retreating form, awkwardly repositioning herself in Vegeta's hold. “ _From this day on now and forever mooore_.”

“The hell are you doing?” Vegeta asked, swallowing back the mortification. A few passersby - stranglers from clubs and couples returning home from dates – turned to watch the sceptical, laughing to themselves at the display.

“It's ' _Tarzan'_ , you uncultured swine!”

“I don't give a damn what it is! Stop it. _Now_.”

Bulma snorted. “Does that stick lodged up your ass hurt, or are you just used to the sensation by now?”

“Have it your way,” Vegeta said, loosening his grip on her and attempting to place her onto her feet. “I'm going to leave you here.”

Bulma's hand shot to the back of his neck, clutching on tightly, while her eyes went large with concern. “No, don't. I'll be good.”

It took a moment, a breathless, painful moment, for Vegeta to collect himself. Something about the way she uttered those simple three words, combined with her attire and the way her eyes attempted to enjoin him to return to her made the world screech to an unpleasant stop.

Vegeta swayed, motion stick, still half-nursing Bulma, while her fingers tugged at the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck. The flavour of the night shifted; the adjustment of colours and sounds and smells making him dizzy, jetlagged, and Vegeta struggled to comprehend what exactly had changed – if anything at all.

Oh so slowly Vegeta brought Bulma up to press her to his torso once again, aware that his heart was rabbiting wildly, and his hands were trembling. She sighed against him, her body relaxing and he felt her nose brush against his collarbone as she nuzzled. The cool night air did nothing to attenuate the uncomfortable, prickling heat expanding outwards and upwards from his chest, but it did help ground him.

At least somewhat.

“If you throw up in my car, I'm going to tie you up and toss you into the ocean,” Vegeta said quietly, attempting to regain some semblance of control.

“M'kay.”

\--------

Bulma was once again sleeping by the time the car rolled into the parking lot of their apartment complex, her face pressed up against the window and mouth agape. The glass had fogged where she had been breathing, and a foundation imprint of her face had been transferred along with it, just for good measure.

He'd make her clear it up as soon as she was sober enough to be trusted around his aluminium baby, but as he made his way around to the passenger side to unbuckle her and help her out, Vegeta couldn't help but steal a glance at her, drool crusting at the corner of her lips and and smirk. He was tempted to pull out his cellphone and snap a photo to keep around as a bargaining tool and a means of blackmail, but thought better of it.

Not only did he run the risk of actually being murdered by her if and when she were to ever find out (and Vegeta sincerely believed that Bulma, even with her pitiful lack of strength and street smarts, had the potential to be the one to end his life where everyone else had failed), but something about having a photo of Bulma on his phone – however unflattering and embarrassing – enkindled something foreign and nameless without Vegeta that he didn't have the capacity to decipher, and so chose to ignore.

She roused slightly when the door opened and her head no longer had anything to press against, blinking sluggishly and murmuring ' _five more minutes'._

“Get up, woman,” Vegeta said, attempting to unbuckle her as she writhed and wriggled in an attempt to find a comfortable position to sleep in.

“I'm _tired.”_

“Tough shit. _I_ was tired but was still forced to come and collect you because you'd gotten yourself into this sorry state.”

Bulma yawned but became far more compliant, stretching out towards Vegeta. “I'm not walking, my feet hurt.”

“So take your shoes off.”

“I'm not walking around _barefoot_.”

“Not my problem.”

“Fine, I'll just sleep in your car.”

“You will not.”

“Try me.”

\--------

Vegeta dumped Bulma rather unceremoniously on the couch, finding a small shred of amusement in the undignified way her body bounced and her disgruntled squeak.

She managed to right herself unaided, propping herself up onto her knees and groping around for the television remote. While she occupied herself, Vegeta turned towards the kitchenette, shuffling between the cupboards and the sink before returning a few minutes later.

“Drink this,” Vegeta demanded roughly, forcing a cup of water into her hands. Bulma took it without question and guzzled noisily, and when she pulled the cup away with an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction, a single droplet ran down her chin before losing its grip and plopping onto her knee.

“They pity me,” Bulma said suddenly, her voice small. “I can tell. They my oldest friends and they _still_ only see the disgraced heiress who fucked up her own life. They look at me like I'm this sad broken little doll, and it makes me _hate_ them.”

Vegeta's throat tightened, and any attempts to formulate a coherent response fell woefully short. Pity. It was often worse than the most severe of beatings, and yet people habitually doled it out under the guise of _kindness_. He could understand Bulma's agitation, had experienced it himself countless times, especially during the early days.

To this day he still occasionally caught Nappa gawking at him as though he were some wounded animal struggling to draw its final breaths as it lay dying in a trap.

_So what, would ya rather it if I'da just let you die all those years ago?_

It made Vegeta wish it were possible to grab the old man by the collar and fling him into the vacuum of space, just so he'd never had to see that fucking look ever again.

“You're not broken,” Vegeta replied carefully, avoiding her gaze. He returned to the kitchen to re-fill her glass, deciding to make her a sloppy cheese and pickle sandwich in an attempt to sober her up and lessen the hangover that would inevitably ravage her in the morning. The relative distance helped attenuate the rapidly building unease that was boiling in the pit of his stomach, working as healthy (ish) distraction from his own thoughts.

“But I am! I'm going to end up as one of those pathetic middle aged women lying about their ages on their headshots and resumes because they _still_ can't make it in the industry.”

Vegeta snorted, not because he found the notion of Bulma still trying to slog her way through the industry in twenty or thirty years' time, but at the way the each word tumbled out more irate than the last. Even drunk, even wallowing in self-pity, she was still capable of nursing that ferocious spark within her. He returned to her, food and drink in tow, and thrust it in front of her.

“Eat.”

“M'not hungry. I'm _pissed_.”

“Fine, like I give a shit. Enjoy your hangover tomorrow.”

“Dick, I'm spilling my heart out here,” Bulma grouched, though she reached for the sandwich nonetheless and took a large, clumsy bite.

Watching her carefully to ensure she didn't choke on her pathetic excuse for a sandwich, or vomit up a night's worth of sugar and liquor and aspirate, Vegeta waited until she'd managed to swallow down a few bites without accidentally killing herself before he began to relax.

Vegeta poured himself another whiskey, still waiting on the countertop for him from his earlier attempt at tricking his body into sleep; some cheap shit that he'd managed to procure from Nappa after guilt-tripping the older man about something or other. He necked back the measure and pulled a face when the liquid burnt his throat, but topped up the glass all the same.

Bulma was watching him, her gaze smothering, following him as he returned to the couch – whiskey in hand – and settled beside her. The anxious knot twisting in the pit of his stomach reminded him of when he was younger and he _knew_ he'd been caught disobeying a direct order from Frieza. It was hard to force back images of being beaten so badly he couldn't see, to shy away from memories of his limbs trembling as he struggled to push himself back to his feet at his slaver's command. But this wasn't Frieza, this was Bulma, and no such reaction happened.

Instead her eyes trailed the length of his body, lingering on his hands. “You've been busy,” she said with a frown, her fingers brushing over the knuckles of his free hand.

“That,” Vegeta began, pulling his hand away. “is none of your business.”

Bulma scoffed. “If I'm paying the rent with blood money it is.”

“ _I_ have never _killed_ anyone.”

“Nah, you just rough 'em up and watch someone else do that, right Bad Man?”

The accusatory tone was sharp and scathing, so much so that it genuinely took Vegeta by surprise. Vegeta had never pretended to be less than what he was, and had been completely honest with Bulma, as much as he was capable of given the circumstances. Her judgement fringed on demoralising, and he hated himself for how much he actually _cared_ about what she thought of him. She had a natural aptitude for pushing his fucking buttons in ways that not even the Colds' had mastered.

But she was right. That's what pissed him off the most.

Though he'd never been the one to pull the trigger, or tighten his grip around another's throat until they fell limp beneath his finger tips, Vegeta had been an accomplice to more murders than he could even begin to comprehend. When he beat rival gang members until their features were no longer distinguishable, when he shattered bones beneath his boots and pressed knives against throats, he _knew_ where it would all eventually lead. He had watched Nappa press the muzzle of a gun against temples and then squeeze the trigger without so much as batting an eye; picking brain matter from his hair and scrubbing blood from his face and clothes had become second nature.

He was as guilty as any other party, and his evaporative code of ethics existed only to protect himself from Frieza.

Not once had he ever felt ashamed of who he was, not really. He'd resented the life that had been stolen from him, outright hated most people that surrounded him, but there were times, too many, when he genuinely enjoyed hurting others. Lived for the adrenaline rush and the overwhelming satisfaction that came with besting an opponent. He had done what was necessary to survive, to thrive, and it had become the one thing – the only solid, stable thing – that he was truly good at.

His chest suddenly tight, Vegeta kick at the coffee table. “I'm going to bed.”

“No, wait, m'sorry. I'm just drunk,” Bulma replied, her fingers tightening. “Stay... please? You're the only one who _really_ understands. Who respects me.”

Vegeta wanted to say no. Wanted to tell her to fuck off, that privileged little bitches couldn't possibly understand who or what he was, nor what he had to do to survive, but the words dried up and died in his throat before Vegeta could even formulate a sentence.

He couldn't deny her.

Not a single fucking thing.

“Just finish your goddamn food so I can go back to bed,” he grouched instead, sinking into the sofa and tilting his head back. His glass of whisky, now resting on his knee and only encircled loosely by the hand Bulma hadn't been caressing, called out to him invitingly, but he couldn't muster the energy to bring it to his lips. The day's events had exhausted him, and it felt easy now to just close his eyes and rest.

Bulma, as it happened, had other plans.

“Vegeta?” She asked, her tone inquisitive.

He peeled an eye open in response. “What is it now?”

What she did next was unexpected, at least to Vegeta. To an outsider, however, it was probably the most predictable, clichéd moment of his life thus far.

She took the glass from his hand and placed it down on the coffee table. He issued her a low warning growl, but the sound withered in his throat when Bulma crawled onto his lap, straddling him and biting on her bottom lip. Her dress had ridden up, exposing the underside of her bottom, though she seemed not to care. Her interest was solely on Vegeta, gaze absolutely ravenous.

“You're actually very handsome,” she laughed to herself, as if responding to an inside joke. Vegeta's lips thinned to a hard line, suspecting that if she were indeed responding to some sort of witticism, then _he_ was the punchline.

“Go to bed, Bulma.”

“How long have we known each other?”

It was all too much, too intense, the sensation of her in his lap, and his mind whirled as it struggled to catch up to the turn of events. Perhaps he'd gone mad, or he'd drifted off already and this was all a dream. “I don't know. A couple of months?”

Bulma paused to dwell on the fact, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth as she trawled through thoughts and memories. “And in all that time I haven't seen you bring anyone back with you. Not a single person.”

Vegeta didn't like where this conversation was going, particularly given the way her hips gyrated against his pelvis, dream or not.

“Do you know how long it's been since someone fucked me?”

Vegeta swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing painfully, feebly attempting to push himself further into the couch and away from _her,_ but failing miserably. He wished he'd made more of an effort when getting changed, wished he hadn't just remained in his flimsy sleepwear with _nothing_ underneath. “N-No?”

“Eight months.”

“...Oh.”-

“All that waiting around can make a girl _needy._ ”

He was half-hard, growing harder with each passing moment. She knew it, her prurient grin and the coquettish fluttering of her eyelashes told him as much, and when she ground her lap into his with more force, dangerous and driven by malicious intent, Vegeta was sure he'd died and gone to hell for his sins.

Self control withering away, a strangled groan managed to break free, Vegeta's cock twitched at the added attention.

“Vegeta, do you think I'm pretty?”

He permit himself to _really_ look at her then; her hair had broken free from its uniform curls to devolve into something messy and nest like, the makeup around her eyes smudged and smeared across her face, and her skin had developed the tell-tale red flush only acquired after consuming far too much alcohol.

She was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on.

“Damn it, woman...”

“Oh, so is that a 'no'?”

“Fuck. Shit. You goddamn bitch. Yes, I think you're very pretty.”

Her face lowered to his, and she rolled her hips against his swelling erection. Vegeta knew he should say no. Knew he possessed more than enough physical strength to shove her easily from his lap, but it was something else that prevented him from doing so, something primitive and long-neglected that he couldn't quite name, thought the taste of it danced across the tip of his tongue.

The air crackled with the same strange, off-kilter energy that had assaulted him earlier outside the club. Almost crippling in its ability to scramble every firing neuron, whatever it was that had blanketed them forced an involuntary inhalation of breath from Vegeta.

It was impossible to deny that, even if it was just on a physical level, a moment of madness, he wanted her.

Perhaps sensing this weakness, Bulma pressed forward, eyes dropping, and her tongue quickly swept over her lips to wet them. Vegeta was frozen to the spot, heart beating so wildly he was faintly worried about his aortic well-being. She was inching closer and closer until her breath ghosted over his lips, sickly sweet from the alcohol. It was when Bulma made the final motion to initiate the kiss that Vegeta turned his face away.

Despite his pathetic attempts at self denial she _was_ his friend, perhaps his only friend other than Raditz, whose friendship status was capricious at best, and if he crossed this line with her he may never be able to return.“You're drunk.”

“I'm sober enough to know I want this.”

“Woman, we're roommates. We're _friends_.”

“Don't overthink it. I'm a big girl,” Bulma's hand slipped between them, ghosting his abdomen as it trailed downwards to cup him through his pants. Vegeta couldn't help but groan, hips bucking at the touch. “You are a _very_ big boy. If we regret it in the morning, so be it. But sex is just sex, and I think we could both do with the release.”

“Besides,” Bulma continued peaking up at him from behind her lashes, her voice lower, softer. “You're the only person I trust enough to share my body with.”

The universe in its entirety fell apart, only to reshape itself nanoseconds later around Bulma's drunken revelation. The entire cosmos had realigned itself, stars and planets shifting to accommodate this new information, and everything that Vegeta thought he knew about the world no longer made any sense.

He was a monster, sufficiently maintained to bear resemblance to a human being, but lacking the appropriate internal mechanisms that truly made him so. The part of him capable of real feeling had withered and died with a crying child too many years ago to fathom, his insides systematically butchered until all that remained was sloppy, decaying viscera. The creature that was left in his place took pleasure in strength: in beating his opponents, in hurtling abuse at terrified victims with a wicked sneer, in the fantasy of his bosses bloody entrails at his feet. And yet...

She _trusted_ him.

 _She_ trusted _him._

Her words stroked his pride enough to let something long forgotten unfurl in his chest, a yearning to reach out and claim her. To bury himself to the hilt in her and just forget about everything else bar the warm, wet press of her body against his; blasting off to a new galaxy where there was no debt weighing down on his shoulders, and no fear that he may not even live long enough to see his revenge through. There was only Vegeta and Bulma, broken and misused as they were, and that was enough.

He found himself thinking of the photographs in her room, of the memories she had that he could never possibly begin to understand, and of the way Raditz had managed to effortlessly include himself into something as normal and carefree as a social circle with Bulma at the heart.

He wanted that. He wanted her. He wanted to feel free and normal for one fucking night, to have a glimpse into the world that had kicked him out before he was even able to fully understand it.

Vegeta's life prior to his precipitous abduction into the underworld was lost to him now, fragmented and fictionalised through memories tainted by the superseding of a child's imagination. Logic reasoned that at some point or another he'd have to had made at least one friend in the eight years he had lived before then, that he had at least one bond with another human being that wasn't reduced to 'I trust you enough to cover my back in a mission'.

But if that friend existed they were little more than a shifting shadow. Occasionally taking the form of his brother, or some shaggy-haired feral child who may or may not have bore a slight resemblance to Raditz (though that in and of itself meant nothing, Vegeta _clearly_ just had a shallow pool to draw from), but mostly it remained as a smokey ghost that he couldn't quite breathe life into.

Bulma was different. Their relationship was nebulous at best, but it had never really phased him before because other than subordinates and superiors, Vegeta had never made the time to establish bonds of any kind. Established relationships of any kind were messy, tricky beasts that required social skills far beyond his measly limits. He was aware of an underlying attraction to her, it would be impossible to deny his guilt when the evidence was mounting with the increasing number of balled up tissue in the wastepaper basket in his room. That attraction muddied the waters of their platonic bond, but nonetheless they _were_ friends; compeers; equals in ways that Vegeta had never thought possible, despite their obvious differences in terms of intellect and strength.

Sex would just complicate things further.

Right?

It didn't have to mean anything. It _didn't_ mean anything. A biological need, hardwired over millions of years across every viable species to have ever drawn breath, in order to secure the continuation of their bloodline. Besides, she'd definitely sobered up somewhat since he'd picked her up, although Vegeta couldn't shake the nagging feeling that they wouldn't be in this position if she were as sober as he was.

“Bulma...”

Before he could continue she clamped her palm over his lips, “if you ask me if I want this one more time I swear to god I'm going to bleach your hair while you sleep, got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” her arms linked behind his neck. “Now, where were we?”

Vegeta felt his skin prickle in anticipation. Her lips hovered above his for a moment, not touching, but close enough so that he could feel the heat of them. Then she pressed them lightly to his, as if she were experimenting, the alcohol in her system making the rhythm a bit juvenile, but igniting a smouldering need within Vegeta nonetheless.

Then her tongue joined the fray, curious and probing, and in an instant he lost control of himself; one hand sinking to her lower back so that he could crush her to him, the other having found her breast. Likewise, Bulma's hands had begun their own exploratory mission, one anchoring itself into Vegeta's hair, while the other roamed the length of his body.

He couldn't think, overwrought with sensation, only truly capable of _touching and enjoying_ the inviting press of her little cunt against his cock. Even through their clothes it felt _incredible:_ hot and needy and _wet_. Unable to stop himself the hand that had settled on her lower back travelled between their bodies, up and under her dress until Vegeta's fingers were tracing Bulma through her underwear.

She shuddered at the contact, moaning softly into his mouth, and thrilled by the sound Vegeta repeated the action with more force.

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Bulma hissed, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.”

Instead of following her orders Vegeta rose to his feet, taking her with him when Bulma instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. They stumbled backwards, down the hallway until her back was being pressed against a neon-pink door and Vegeta was shallowly thrusting against her with his mouth affixed to hers.

_So much for the door being a cock block._

He'd considered taking Bulma to her own room but it felt oddly personal, as though an additional line would be crossed if he were to sleep with her there. This was Bulma's _home,_ a place of sanctuary. Vegeta just saw the apartment as a means to an end; a necessary step towards freedom.

One of them, in a flurry of blindly groping hands, reached for the door handle and turned it, causing the pair to fall into his room. The bed dipped and bounced when they found it and crashed atop of it, bed springs creaking when they broke apart to disrobe; Bulma's dress being discarded alarmingly quickly onto a heap at the foot of the bed.

Vegeta tugged his shirt up and over his head in what should have been a singular, fluid motion, well-practiced and executed on the daily as it was. But instead the movement was clumsy, almost nervous, and he could feel himself blushing like an inexperienced school boy. His bottoms joined shortly, and somewhere between the initially pull of fabric and now Bulma's panties had been discarded.

Vegeta was suddenly hyper aware of their nudity.

His embarrassment getting the better of him, he threw his arm over his face, trying to quell the rising heat and slow his heart. This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Normally he flourished in such situations, but the overall _badness_ of this particular predicament felt lightyears beyond his limitations.

He was nothing but a mess of scars; a tangle of ropey welts and ugly lesions that told the story of a life he'd rather not have lived. He'd seen the way women had thrown themselves at the likes of Raditz and Zarbon, seen the way they'd cautiously avoided eye contact with him. Would she find him hideous? A tiny, fragile part of him wasn't sure that he'd be able to cope with the rejection from the one good, pure person he'd managed to somehow steal into his life.

“Wow, Vegeta,” She breathed his name as if it were a prayer, the tip of her fingers gliding across his chest. “You look...”

Vegeta removed his arm from his face and gave Bulma a long look. Barely-there freckles that she had routinely complained about sprinkled her face, exaggerated by the delicate flush of alcohol. Vegeta's eyes watched Bulma's intently, latched on and trying to search her own for the answer. He fought the urge to look away and break the gaze, but it was his only way of being honest. Vegeta would try and pull the answer from her, and if Bulma could try and tell him through some odd psychic connection instead of uttering the words to life, then maybe her rebuff wouldn't hurt as much.

“Incredible,” Bulma's eyes roamed his body for a moment before climbing upwards and locking once again with his own. Admittedly, she was an actress, but he couldn't find anything resembling a lie in her eyes. “I knew you kept yourself in shape, but I never expected anything like _this._ Your body... it's just... _wow._ You look like a Greek god.”

Even with the rush of heat to his cheeks he couldn't help but preen a little at the compliment.

Feeling a little more at ease, and dutifully ignoring the screeching voice begging him to _put some fucking clothes on and STOP THIS,_ Vegeta drank her in, hoping that he wouldn't blow his load just by looking at her.

Bulma was, predictably, perfect in every way. Soft, pliant flesh, pale and goose-pimply from the exposure. Pert, pink nipples hardening against the cold. Not quite how he had imagined her, Dream Bulma had been an amalgamation of his own limited experience and pornography, but so much better.

“What's this?” Vegeta asked, thumbing a faded white ridge on the right side of her stomach.

Bulma drew in a sharp breath, pressing into the touch. “My appendix ruptured when I was thirteen.”

“Hng.”

“No more questions,” Bulma said, shifting closer. One hand travelling to the base of his cock and issuing it a few teasing, feather-light touches. “I want you to make me forget everything.”

\-------

Vegeta had never known foreplay to last so long.

He wasn't sure if it was because Bulma was drunk, or because when he had sex it was usually for his gratification alone (and, realistically, when was the last time he'd made a girl cum? If he'd ever made one cum at all), but just getting her ready was taking a goddamn age.

Although working a pretty girl open with his fingers as she panted and mewled while stroking his cock wasn't the _worst_ way to spend the night.

It definitely trumped trawling filthy bars with Raditz and Nappa.

“I'm ready,” Bulma finally gasped, and thank _christ_ because Vegeta was sure carpal tunnel was on the horizon.

“Tch, about time.”

“Shut up.”

Vegeta rooted around in his bedside drawer until he found the black box he'd been searching for, his heart sinking when it was lighter than expected. He gave it an experimental shake, hoping for the familiar rattle that denoted it wasn't _quite_ empty, but only silence followed. Feeling desperate, and aware of the naked woman sprawled deliciously on his bed, Vegeta tipped the box open anyway – disappointed, but not surprised, when he was left unrewarded.

He could remember buying them on a whim, a quick flirt with pre-preparedness while at the drug store stocking up on other work-related essentials, with no real expectations as to exactly when he was going to need them. His sex drive usually fringed on the non-existent, a preoccupation with power and freedom proving to be much more worthwhile substitutes in his eyes. Still, in a rare flush of quasi-confident _hope,_ Vegeta had tamped down his embarrassment enough to place the box on the counter with a stack of Nexcare surgical tape, rubbing alcohol, a suture kit, and a Baby Ruth.

He had used a few to test their durability when filled with various corrosive substances (both a work-related experiment and something he had done simply for his own amusement, but when those experiments began to drift from the territory of 'fruitless' to 'straight up boring', Vegeta had abandoned them (and the condoms) with little thought or reflection.

Vegeta also vaguely remembered Raditz raiding his supply when he still lived at the motel, the other man having also rented a room in the complex after he'd picked up some stray girl on a night out (a sensible choice when the other option involved bringing her home to the apartment he shared with Nappa), but that was _months_ ago, long before he'd moved in with Bulma, and surely he would have noticed running out before now, right?

Except... he hadn't actually had sex with anyone in a long fucking time, and the last time he had managed to get some it had been with one of Frieza's girls, and they _always_ carried their own rubbers at their boss' insistence. Venereal diseases and squawking brats were things that the tyrant didn't take too kindly to. Though there were exceptions to the rule when it came to the latter.

Vegeta was, after all, living proof that sometimes, just sometimes, Frieza found uses for children.

“Shit,” he hit out at the mini dresser, ignoring the whine and wobble of the cheap wood. “Fuck, do you have any condoms? I'm out.”

Bulma shook her head, and Vegeta couldn't help but feel irked by the lack of noticeable disappointment. Was it such a crime to want her to want him in return, if only for one night? Was he _really_ asking for too much for her to be just as pissed about the situation as he was?

“You're clean, right?” She asked, propping herself up onto her elbows and cutting through his mounting agitation.

“What?”

“ You'd pass a talent test?” Bulma pressed on.

“...Yeah?”

“Then we're good to go,” she tapped her upper arm. “Implant.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“No, I...” Vegeta tried, eyes darting anxiously about the room like a frightened, wounded animal searching for a means of escape. “I can't... not without...”

Nappa had sat him down during the onset of puberty and given him some boilerplate advice regarding the importance of contraceptives that had been extremely effective. Cautionary tales of what their omnipotent enslaver was capable of, should Vegeta suddenly return home one day with a blossoming family to protect and have used against him as leverage, and the memory of his own father's betrayal had still been fresh enough in Vegeta's mind to dissuade him from partaking in risky, un-protected sex.

That, and the extremely graphic flip book of STI mangled genitalia that Nappa had pulled from _somewhere_ just to traumatise Vegeta further.

“Oh, okay...” Bulma's visible chagrin, and the way her arms began to wrap around herself to shield her nudity physically pained Vegeta. “I get it. This was stupid. I'm sorry, I've had waaay too much to drink.”

_For fuck's sake, it your dick falls off we'll deal with it tomorrow. Just fuck her already._

Vegeta made a decision.

“No, don't.”

Perhaps the most reckless one of his entire life.

Almost shyly Vegeta settled himself on the bed between her legs, abandoning the notion of condoms and possible oopsie-babies or sexually transmitted diseases. As he crawled up the bed towards her Bulma's arms fell away and her legs yawned apart, and then his lips found hers and the head of his erection was butting against her entrance, and it was almost overbearing in the movie-perfect way things were transpiring.

She was going to hate him in the morning.

He could deal with that.

Could he?

Yes.

No, he couldn't.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not right now.

Vegeta tried to press into her, but Bulma's body resisted, and he couldn't help but wonder if it was a sign from above that what they were doing was wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ and that they needed to stop immediately. But then her body acquiesced and he lacked the capacity to think at all, so utter overwhelmed by the delicious wet heat of her.

Vegeta hissed, struggling to draw a breath deep enough to steady himself; the temptation to give into desire, to just release a lifetime of pent up energy was overwhelming, but Bulma's pinched face as she struggled to adjust to the intrusion quelled that desire, and so instead he simply waited.

He felt her relax, even before she tentatively rocked her hips and forced a moan from her own lips.

With that Vegeta floundered, his thoughts scattered; instinct begging him to just fuck her already, to press his cock deeper into her, and her deeper into the bed until they were both quivering messes; logic arguing that this was a really fucking _awful_ idea because she was Bulma and he was Vegeta and they should _not_ be doing this. The two raged for what felt like an eternity as he wavered, but when Bulma snaked her fingers through his hair and _pulled_ something within him snapped.

He could feel her breath against the shell of his ear, hot and rapid and shallow. “Are you gonna fuck me, Bad Man?”

But what was common sense anyway? Other than yet another voice trying to hamper and restrict his ability to enjoy what was left of his miserable life.

He wasn't a good man. He had never been a good man. She had known that right from the offset, and he had never been deceptive. Treating her like some fragile, broken thing whose purity he had to preserve at all costs would serve no purpose to either of them.

Bulma wore disorder well. She was not afraid of the chaos that was her life, and instead of cowering away from it or hiding it from the world, she wore it like a badge of honour. She would shriek and stomp her foot and spit acid at creatures far more dangerous than herself, and any sensible being would cower beneath Bulma's heal because she was a force to be reckoned with.

Knowing what he had to do, Vegeta dipped his head to press his lips against the curve of Bulma's throat. “I _am_ going to fuck you.”

His first few thrusts were shallow, experimental, testing the limits of her body. When he was rewarded to a soft whimper of _'more_ ', her hips rising to meet his and urging him on, Vegeta abandoned all sense of restraint until he was pounding into her forcefully and Bulma was wailing in response, and it was all Vegeta could do not to wail with her because she felt so goddamn good.

“Harder,” Bulma gasped, her face flushed and sweat gathering at her brow. Her curls, already in disarray, were damp and sticking to her skin, and she attempted to brush her hair away only to clutch at it when Vegeta hit a particularly sweet spot. “Fuck, do that again. Harder, _more_.”

Vegeta's hand ran the length of her thigh, pausing at the knee to pull her leg upwards and hook it over one of his shoulders, the wet slap of their bodies as they collided again sending a jolt of pleasure down his spine.

Her reaction was instant, and Bulma's back arched with the moan of his name that very nearly tipped him over the edge. In an effort to ground himself and prevent any premature embarrassment, Vegeta dipped forward to press his mouth against her neck, focusing on the vein that throbbed against his tongue rather than the tight coiling deep in his abdomen.

It was surreal; a fever dream that took established bonds and twisted them into nonsense.

Overlooking the flurried twang coursing through his veins, Vegeta just let himself go.

 

* * *

 

Fanart [(first image](https://thenotsosupersaiyan.tumblr.com/post/172786619979/vegeta-in-the-city-of-stars-psst-hey-you-snappy) | [second image](https://thenotsosupersaiyan.tumblr.com/post/172912134794/bright-lights)) by [TheNotSoSuperSaiyan](https://thenotsosupersaiyan.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fan art by the ever wonderful [ TheNotSoSuperSaiyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNotSoSuperSaiyan/pseuds/TheNotSoSuperSaiyan), including the beautiful poster you can find on [Tumblr](https://thenotsosupersaiyan.tumblr.com/post/173199322944/the-city-of-stars-okay-here-it-is-ive-been) and [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/MightyMooseArt/status/988130430833508354?p=v) (and I'll be adding it to chapter one shortly!). I _**highly**_ recommend checking out their story 'The Prince of Ash and Snow'.
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful feedback, fan art and messages of support. I especially love reading your theories about what will happen next, and I absolutely _adore_ the love side characters are getting.
> 
> I will admit I struggled with writing this chapter a bit (smut is not my forte), but I hope I didn't disappoint you too much! I'm excited to explore the ways in which the characters will respond to the events of this chapter, and the meatier part of the plot really starts kicking soon.
> 
> For those that asked you can find the playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/mynsii/playlist/79bz7hBcSYupU1U9buUmU5). The playlist is from Vegeta's perspective, and when played in order can be _slightly_ spoiler-y, but nothing too extreme.


	9. (Un)pleasantries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma and Vegeta are forced to deal with the classic morning-after-the-night-before awkwardness. Bulma makes a horrific discovery. Vegeta has to deal with an unwelcome house guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, first of all I’d like to apologise for the delay between chapters. If you follow me on tumblr/p@treon/twitter you’ll probably know that my old laptop kicked the bucket recently (after nine loyal years of service), and while I was waiting for my replacement I was unable to work on _anything_. I also recently adopted a puppy, and bo-oy is he hard work (even if he is super cute), and started looking more seriously into starting my PhD, so it’s been a hectic few months. 
> 
> This chapter is also one of the longest I've written (15+k words!) which also attributes to the lateness of it all. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and for your lovely reviews, I read and cherish them all.

_“I trace it all back to then; her, and the snow, and the Seine. Smiling right through it she said she'd do it again”_  
**\- Mia Dolan, La La Land (2016)**

\-------

Something had curled up and died in Bulma's throat during the night, she was sure of it. Whatever it was had clearly been sick long before it finally kicked the bucket, already rancid and half-decayed, it’s flesh falling apart into a filmy soup that coated her insides and made her want to hurl.

She was also pretty sure that she'd been hit by a car. Multiple times. There wasn't a single inch of her that didn't ache, every muscle stiff and bruised as though she'd ran several marathons back-to-back, protesting even the slightest of movements.

Bulma Briefs was around eighty-percent sure that she was, in fact, dying. Eighty-five point four percent, if the uneasy gurgle marking the potential expulsion of her internal organs via her mouth was anything to go by.

She hadn’t planned on going out this way; beautiful, single, unfulfilled. She’d kind of planned on just sort of… stopping when she was old and worn out by the endless stream of adventures she’d inevitably gone on. But she supposed it was one of those bizarre twists of fate, and that only the good died young, and Bulma was the textbook definition of ‘good’ (although ‘brilliant’ was a much more accurate descriptor) in every single way.

Did that mean she was going to just sit back and accept her death?

Never.

With bravery and strength that she never knew herself capable of, Bulma peeled her eyes open in an attempt to peak at her alarm clock, but to her confusion it was strangely absent. In its place was a cell phone that didn't belong to her, an empty black box, and a bizarre white _thing_ with a rose-coloured LCD screen displaying a series of numbers and symbols she assumed translated into time. Somehow.

She was in a bed that wasn't her own. And, if the heated press of something suspiciously flesh-like against her back was anything to go by, Bulma wasn't alone.

With delicacy born in part from her desire not to wake her bed partner, but also out of necessity due to the potentially life-threatening throbbing within her skull, Bulma rolled over to confirm her suspicions.

Vegeta was sleeping soundly be her side, his lips parted and his breathing smooth and deep. Grogginess gave way to panic, the dawning realisation intermingling with hazy half-memories of the night before tugging her towards the eye of her mounting hangover. Muddied flashes of flesh meeting flesh demanded themselves to be known.

She remembered her argument with Yamcha clearly, the cold slap of betrayal impossible to scrub away, but beyond that things got hazy. Bulma _thought_ she remembered Vegeta turning up to the party to hang out with …. Yamcha and Tien? but that didn't seem like something he would do. Then she remembered being back at the apartment, remembered eating something, talking to Vegeta. Somehow _kissing_ Vegeta, and –

– Oh. Oh, _shit._  

They'd had sex.

She'd had sex with her scary, if not handsome, roommate.

Bulma peeked at herself under the covers. Yup, she was naked. As was Vegeta.

They'd definitely had sex.

Bulma wasn't stupid. Prone to rushing into things? Yes. Driven by rash emotions? Undeniably so. But stupid? Not a chance in hell. She knew what he and Raditz did for a living, even if her grasp on the specifics was sketchy.

She'd invited Vegeta to live with her secure in the knowledge that whatever illegal activities he got up outside the walls of the apartment were not truly his doing, or, at least, were the result of orders forced upon him and not through choice. Her gut had told her that, like Raditz, Vegeta wasn't an immediate threat to her, and her head had reasoned that not only did she need the money, but she could probably use the extra security that his particular brand of thug provided.

Bulma had also known, because her intelligence went beyond the stuffy confines of mechanical and biomechanical engineering, that Vegeta was a lot, _lot_ softer than he portrayed himself to be, so nourishing that neglected little seed of fragile humanity would eventually result in something wonderful and akin to friendship being able to blossom.

She hadn't anticipated that friendship would devolve into bumping drunken uglies, but that was more of an oversight on her part, a lack of complete data, rather than stupidity.

But, based on his previous overreactions to anything remotely sexual, and the way that Vegeta had sequestered himself away from her for days after being caught with a hard on, it was fair to assume that he would react poorly when he woke up.

Which, again, wasn’t totally her fault. A lack of foresight at most.

Honestly, this really did all come down to Tien and his need to get his socially awkward dick sucked. If he hadn't had continue to pursue Launch against her wishes, if he hadn't had decided he needed to 'open his third eye' and high-tail it to god-only-knows-where the moment Launch became a little too much, Bulma would have been fine.

Launch would have stuck around, Bulma wouldn't have had to invite the asshole from the coffee shop to come live with her when it became apparent that she was no longer rich enough to support herself, they wouldn't have had accidental sex, which would result in Vegeta inevitably leaving, and her life would be a-okay.

Screw Tien. There weren’t enough breakfast bagels in the world to make up for this monumental fuck-up.

A fresh wave of sickness assaulted Bulma, and it was all she could do not to vomit on both herself and the man asleep by her side. Hangover getting the better of her, and deciding that confronting her roommate-slash-friend-slash-one-time-sexual-partner could wait a few more hours, Bulma wriggled further under the covers and let herself drift off once more.

\--------

Bulma awoke once more to sunlight filtering in through the window, pleasantly warm if not a source of minor aggravation.

It had all felt a bit like a dream. A very visceral, explicit dream that felt really, _really_ good, but a dream nonetheless.

One moment she was being carted into the apartment by her grumpy, if not endearing, gang-banger roommate, the next she was fisting sheets and panting expletives as his body thrust in rhythm with hers. While the details were fuzzy, the general feeling of the fantastic _badness_ of it zipped through Bulma's body like an electric current, pausing at the spots where rough hands had lingered, pulling at her hair and tight at her hip.

The way that everything bloomed up and out and she lost control of her own body, not really knowing where she ended and Vegeta began. All she’d really known was that she’d never felt so explosively good _everywhere_ , as though every nerve in her body had been replaced by trails of fire, that he had attentively tried to extinguish by any means necessary.

Sex, in practice, wasn’t the same was in the epic silver-screen love stories Bulma had greedily devoured while growing up.   

It wasn’t accented by mood music, soft purple lighting that masks lumps and bumps that people would rather not have on display. It wasn’t perfectly sculpted ‘o’ faces, and serious looks exchanged while dangling over the precipice of a high that was utterly incomparable to any other addictive substance the world had to offer. It wasn’t multiple orgasms, or even a guaranteed orgasm at all. It wasn’t sweet, soft kisses afterwards that helped punctuate the mood and ease back down into reality.

Sex was messy. It was noisy squelching that's far from sexy, and fluids dribbling down thighs and between butt cheeks. It was laughter because teeth clacked together during rushed kisses, or someone’s stomach gurgled loudly and soiled the mood. Sex was ugly faces pulled during shifts in tempo, and wobbly body parts misbehaving.

Sex was breathy demands that went unanswered. Sex was an underwhelming ‘that’s it?’, and tears sobbed into a pink, threadbare stuffed gorilla because things were supposed to be different.

Sex was mounting frustrations and stumbling, but not quite falling, into the deep end of pleasure. Sex was arguing about the scent of another woman’s perfume on a shirt collar and slung insults that devolved into needy embraces that were just unhealthy substitutes for actual conversation.

Sex was often disappointing. A let down. Confusing.

At least it had been in Bulma’s experience.

Until last night.

It was like her entire book on sex had been rewritten over the course of a couple of hours; Vegeta had been obsessively attentive, as though she was some sort of insurmountable challenge that he’d convinced himself he would beat down and overcome.

Sex with Yamcha had, like their relationship, grown stale towards the end, with neither of them getting any real pleasure out of the act. They’d continued to have sex, albeit much less frequently and with ever waning enthusiasm, because that’s what couples were _supposed_ to do. It didn’t matter that Bulma, more often than not, waited until Yamcha had rolled off of her and fallen asleep to slip off into the bathroom and chase her own orgasm. It didn’t matter that Yamcha ignored her occasional requests for fire and spontaneity. It didn’t matter that the excuses she made to avoid being touched became increasingly half-hearted.

It didn’t matter that, at the grand old age of twenty-two Bulma had already grown bored of something she’d always assumed would be fun for the rest of her life.

Enter Vegeta.

Literally _and_ figuratively.

His eyes had pinned her, trapped her, and she’d been helpless to fight against him as he devoured her completely.

It had been fucking _amazing_. Better than it had ever been before, better than she’d ever thought it capable of being.

Which is why it had to have been a dream, right?

But she'd never woken up from one of those dreams naked with something alarmingly _sticky_ between her thighs. And she'd certainly never woken up to Vegeta – equally as naked, questionably as sticky – lay asleep beside her.

_“_ Shit.”

Vegeta shot upright the moment she opened her mouth, eyes wide and muscles tense. He blinked rapidly, pawing at his face with a little shake of his head, as though trying to will himself completely into consciousness. Vegeta’s reaction was almost cartoonish in its severity, and for a flicker of a second Bulma could easily imagine the silly sound effects accompanying his look of frantic confusion.

Despite the awkward nature of this particular encounter, and despite the pulsating behind her eyes not unlike the threatening tick of a bomb as it counted down to detonation, Bulma couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all.

Then the sheets that had been hitched up to the shoulder pooled around Vegeta's middle, exposing his torso, and her Bulma had to clamp her hands over her mouth to stifle her shock, any traces of laughter dying in her throat.

She'd never seen him without a shirt on before, or at least without some sort of material covering his back. She'd never really given the fact much thought; they'd only known each other for such a small space of time, and Vegeta was almost always wearing hoodies or sleeved gym wear. Sometimes it was easy to forget that not everyone shared her friends' proclivity for stripping down to batter and bruise one another until they could barely stand.

But Bulma had never even entertained the idea that the reason he kept himself covered up was in order to disguise a very grotesque secret.

Vegeta’s skin was a tapestry of scars, that much was obvious. Almost every visible inch of skin bore battle damage of some kind, and while they weren't impossible to ignore, they weren't so bad as to detract from the richness of his dark skin, or the carefully sculpted bulge of his muscles. Thin flashes of white intersected with newer, pinker gashes provided character, rather than hideousness.

But these ones, these ones were different.

From his shoulder blades to the base of his back were a series of ugly, raised lesions; deliberate in their symmetricity, and so horrifyingly _deep_ that Bulma struggled to wrap her head around just how Vegeta had been able to survive such brutal injuries, let alone survive them with seemingly little-to-no lasting impact or nerve damage.

There must have been at least two dozen, if not more. Some disappeared into his hairline at the nape, other's lining up perfectly with scars at the tops of his arms, suggesting they completed a set.

One in particular, running from the base of his neck to the underside of his ribcage, looked as though he had the potential to have killed him; raised and vicious, and she almost wanted to reach out and touch it, as though she could will it away with the tips of her fingers and grief alone.

Bulma had seen scars like his before, though never in person. Had seen pictures of similar injuries in history books, immortalising the cruelty of man, in copies of National Geographic, and post-watershed news bulletins. She knew how scars such as his were made, knew deep in the pit of her gut what he'd evidentially gone through, why he hid his body away.

But, perhaps the most disturbingly, they were _old._ Very old. Probably more than a decade. Which meant they'd been inflicted when Vegeta was merely a _child_.

A lost and quiet and lonely little boy.

“Oh _no,_ ” Bulma couldn't contain the words as they tumbled from her tongue, though she prayed that her hand had muffled them. “No, no, _no._ ”

How had they been friends for so long without her realising that he was the victim of one of the worst crimes imaginable?

She’d known broken children; had befriended and loved enough of them. Yamcha’s parents had been painfully absent, and Tien’s adoptive father had been so obsessive about his son following in his own footsteps, that he’d cared very little for the toll it had taken on Tien’s mental health and stunted social skills.

Goku and Raditz's parents hadn't been ideal, though having their first child when they were just shy of sixteen and lacking the financial means to raise a baby had probably been the main factor in their struggle to parent. Gine and Bardock struggled with parental responsibilities, struggled to balance being teenagers and child-rearing. It was the main reason why Goku had spent most of his childhood in the care of his grandfather, and why Raditz was, well, Raditz.

But they weren't _bad_ people; they'd loved their children dearly, despite their misgivings, and the struggles that her friends had faced while growing up certainly didn't equate to the monstrosities that Vegeta had so obviously endured.

To Bulma's knowledge Gine and Bardock had never so much as raised their voices against their children (which probably also explained Raditz's disregard for the rules) much less laid a hand on either one of them. Their 'crime', if that was the right word, was a string of mistakes that came with naivety and not really knowing how to raise one child, let alone two, while still kids themselves. 'Neglect' was the official title, though even that had felt too extreme. Too accusatory and judgemental.

They were making up for it as grandparents. They harboured guilt for not always having food on the table, or clean clothes, or for forgetting about school events and skipping doctor’s appointment. They were _good_ grandparents, involved to the point that Gine's constant input had Chi Chi bristling most days.

Whatever had happened to Vegeta, _whoever_ had happened to Vegeta, went far beyond neglect, beyond abuse even. Bulma doubted, without even knowing the monster who'd inflicted such horrific wounds, that they felt any regret for lashing a child.

Suddenly the hangover wasn't the only reason the contents of her stomach threatened to expel themselves upward.

All thoughts of their drunken fumble forgotten, Bulma reached out her hand, tentatively laying her palm flat on Vegeta's forearm. She felt him flinch, but it wasn't unexpected. Initiating any sort of physical contact with him came with some sort of minor conflict, be it in the form of an involuntarily jerk out of the way, or grumpy spiel, though he almost always acquiesced. She often thought of him as somewhat like a beaten dog, in safe hands now but unable to stop itself from instinctively flinching when touched.

It broke her heart to consider how close to the mark her comparison actually was.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Vegeta turned to face her, though still evading eye contact, his look of confusion evolving into borderline panic. Whether it was because the reality that they'd actually had sex, or she was naked in his bed, or because she'd seen his scars, it was hard to tell. Likely a combination of all three. Regardless, she'd never seen him look so genuinely frightened, and it was fucking _heart breaking_.

“Good morning, Bad Man,” Bulma said, forcing a cheery smile. Her heart rabbited in her chest, and the world span around her at a dizzying rate, but the need to nullify the horrific mental image of braided leather slicing through flesh overpowered her desire to give into the repercussions of last night's alcohol consumption.  “Uh, sorry about the morning breath.”

Vegeta didn't respond, but she saw his throat bob and felt his muscles contract beneath her hand.

He was always so tense, so uncomfortable, as though never allowing himself to fully relax. He was a far cry from Raditz, who was far more like his brother than surface level observations let on, who enjoyed his downtime with an easy, satisfied grin without care or concern for whatever worried him while he was ‘on the job’.

She wondered how the two of them could have ever possibly formed a friendship, being as different as they were, trying desperately to focus on something other than the sense of dread that consumed her.

“Are you okay?” Bulma asked quietly, uncertainly. Almost asking herself. “You look pale.”

“I'm fine,” Vegeta replied sharply. His dark eyes refused to meet hers, instead glued to the foot of the bed.

“You sure?” God, she wanted to ask him about the scars. Praying that they were actually born from some sort of accident, that the deliberate pattern was coincidental, and in the hope that if she had the names of those that had inflicted unimaginable suffering upon Vegeta, she could somehow exact revenge on his behalf.

Vegeta’s jaw worked for a moment, a vein on his neck throbbing with the effort. “I said I'm fine, didn't I?”

“You don't seem it.”

 “For fuck’s sake. We woke up together, unclothed, in my bed. Last night we...” Vegeta trailed off uncomfortably, his cheeks adopting a dark pink hue. It was actually...adorable, how flustered he became whenever the topic of sex was brought up. Like an awkward school boy spluttering his way through his first sex-education class. It gave her something to focus on, something positive and pleasant and much more in-keeping with the Vegeta she knew. _“_ The hell am I supposed to act?”

Bulma shrugged, hiking the “I don't know but... not like this. It was just sex.”

At that Vegeta laughed, a bitter, malicious bark, and _finally_ his gaze levelled with hers. “Yes, but with _you_.”

There was something poisonous and accusatory in his tone that had Bulma reeling back; her disgust momentarily forgotten and replaced by anger. _“_ I'm sorry, are you saying I'm not good enough for your pompous ass? Because I don’t remember you complaining too much about lowering your lofty standards enough to bed me last night.”

“Damnit, woman, why do you insist on twisting my words?” Her ire seemed to pull Vegeta from whatever isolating state he had begun to slip into. “That’s not what I'm saying at all.”

“Good. Because I am at _least_ a ten out of ten, though personally I'd say I go beyond the limitations of such an arbitrary scale.”

They sat together in weighted silence for a moment, Vegeta twisting away from her so that, thankfully, his back no longer faced her. It was an almost instant relief, as though out of sight and out of mind, and Bulma felt the tension drain from her body.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his fists twisting in the sheets. His knuckles were pulpy and bruised, and Bulma remembered, albeit vaguely, reprimanding him about it. How they’d gone from playful banter to writhing together in a sweaty heap still remained a partial mystery, but Bulma was self-aware enough to realise that she was certainly the instigator. Friendships were messy and complicated that way.

_“_ You don't hate me?” Vegeta asked suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically small and uncertain. It was an uncomfortable glimpse into his past, winding Bulma with its ferocity. Vegeta being anything other than his brash, over-confident self felt so unnatural.

God, she wished she could just reverse time. Make it so she’d chosen to stay in and vegetate on the couch with a shit film and cheap beer, instead of going out and getting hammered. It would make everything so much easier. There would be no arguments with Yamcha, no drunken fumble with her roommate, no still-potentially-lethal hangover, and no sudden awareness that the world was a lot darker and scarier than she had ever allowed herself to believe.

“Hate you? Why would I hate you?”

“I... you... you were drunk. I took advantage of you.”

Bulma laughed and leant forward to press her forehead against Vegeta's shoulder. Predictably he tensed, but he didn't push her away, nor did he say anything. In fact, for a moment it felt as though he leant into her, his check pressing against her the top of her head. Warm, always so warm, and solid. Reliable, in his own strange way. “From what I remember I'm pretty sure I was the one who jumped you.”

“Tch.”

She could feel his lips curl upwards, if only slightly, the tension from his body sagging. It helped abate her own anxieties, and Bulma slid her hand along his bicep, trailing a comforting pattern along his skin. Vegeta’s nostrils flared with a heavy exhale of breath, the air fanning across Bulma’s skin in a manner that was almost ticklish. “Besides,” she said quietly, admiring goose-bitten flesh up close. “You made me feel pret-ty good. I think I can forgive you.”

“Vulgar woman.”

She smiled, enjoying how normal and nice things felt. As though it was just another, everyday interaction between the two of them. The fact they were naked in his bed, having spent the night together, was inconsequential. The easiness of their routine was pleasant, helped dissipate the unpleasantness of the night before, helped her rally against Yamcha's betrayal, and helped to push aside the image of Vegeta's broken and battered body.

Bulma couldn't bear to lose it, knew from his track record that he would likely isolate himself from her to save face and preserve his pride. He'd studiously avoided her for days the last time they'd innocently shared a bed. She couldn't imagine what he'd do now, the lengths he'd go to avoid the embarrassment of her company.  Their friendship meant too much to her, _he_ meant too much to her to lose him now.

Selfishly, she needed him.

She needed him to make her feel like less of a cosmic screw up. Needed him to make her feel like hitting rock bottom was only a means of propelling herself back up. Needed him to make her feel like she wasn’t alone, static, while everyone else around her made huge strides towards a future that was too muddied for her to dive towards.

He was so broken, so beaten down by life, so cautious and angry, that it _helped_. It made her feel better. Safer. More in control.

And, without inflating her own ego, she suspected that without her, Vegeta would be left pretty much alone too. Now more than ever, she knew how much he needed someone, _anyone_ , to remind him that people could be kind and warm.

_“_ Vegeta, don't.”

Vegeta blinked, looking genuinely confused. “Don't _what_?”

“I know what's going to happen next. You're going to get all distant and awkward, you'll refuse to talk to me for an undetermined amount of time, until I step in and bully my way into a conversation. In the meantime we'll both be miserable, the apartment will acquire the unmistakable stench of angst, and Raditz will hound us both about our sudden shift in mood,” Bulma said, pausing to gnaw on her lower lip. “So, don't.  Please don't. I... I need you. And I know that's lame and we haven’t actually known each other all that long, but you're one of my closest friends, whether you like it or not, and I need you. There are things I can't talk to Goku or the others about, and... I can with you.”

She could see Vegeta's skin darkening, even the tips of his ears turning scarlet, his jaw working as he mulled over the conversation. “Things have changed.”

“We're adults, Vegeta. Consenting ones at that. We had sex, it's really not a big deal. Sometimes friends have sex, it happens. We're both hot, we're both single, and we both have crap we'd rather not deal with.”

He groaned, but said nothing, and taking it as a good sign Bulma continued. “Good. Now, I'm going to go shower off the smell of cheap liquor and shame. This hangover is making me it's bitch, and I don't have the capacity to deal with it _and_ your awkward sulking,” She pulled the comforter up towards her and wrapped it around her body, smirking when Vegeta's blush deepened and he looked away. “We can talk about this some more later.”

“Tch.”

“Just... be here when I get back, okay? I could really use a friend right now.”

_And so could you._

\--------

Vegeta was no stranger to humiliation, but he usually wore it well with a practiced mask of indifference and a scowl that he hoped screamed ' _one day I'm going to murder you while you sleep, but maybe not for this, maybe I just want you dead_. _You'll never know._ '

But normally those moments of humiliation involved being reminded of his (barely) glorified slave status in front of snickering plebeians who could barely write their own names unsupervised, or because, in spite of his rank and dedication to power, he’d been sent to some obscure little hipster coffee shop on a refreshments run, and ended up in a verbal sparring match with an uppity, blue-haired waitress.

Those were things that Vegeta could handle with some semblance of dignity; moments he could puff out his chest for, rise above, and tuck away until he could exact his revenge later.

He didn’t know how to deal with this particular type of humiliation. Or, more specifically, the single cataclysmic truth that ignited such feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt.    

Bulma Briefs looked pretty when she came.

Which was unsurprising, given the fact that she was pretty doing just about anything and everything.

She'd looked phenomenal, smeared makeup and sweat damp curls and all, writhing beneath him with her lips parted and cheeks flushed, but it had been the husky way she’d called his name as her back jerked off of the bed, how the final syllable had clung to her throat in a strangled moan, that had done it for him. He’d wanted to last longer, but it was as though someone had flicked a switch inside of him and nothing else in the world mattered other than the fact that Bulma Briefs was choking on _his_ name as she came.

Which was bad.

Catastrophic, even.

He’d tried hard, embarrassingly hard, to ensure that she came before he did. The fact that Vegeta had made her cum at all had been nothing short of a goddamn miracle, and he’d been worried, right up until the moment he felt her shudder and convulse, that he was going to prove himself a disappointment.

It was, after all, the first time he cared about an orgasm that wasn’t his own.

His prior interest in sex was as limited as his experience, lacking the time and the inclination to indulge in it habitually. Nappa and Raditz were both little more than poon-hounds, scouring bars and clubs and streets for women to satisfy their appetites. They seemed to care very little about other vices

His reputation had afforded him certain luxuries, namely in the form of girls who hung desperately around The Colds hoping to find _something_ capable of distracting them from abusive households, run down neighbourhoods, and the cold, bone-deep ache for a fix that they simply couldn't afford. They yearned for something better, even if their faith that  _Frieza_ was capable of supplying that was grossly misplaced. 

In the same way, Vegeta had used sex as a distraction, but Frieza's girls had been just as disinterested and bored as he was, and he'd never cared about whether or not they came (which they almost certainly didn't), or if he knew their names, or even if they had somewhere warm and safe to retreat back to once their job was done and the city lights were beginning to blink and flicker. They were just vessels capable of supplying a few moments of sweet, sweet emptiness, just like any other drug. 

But Bulma... Bulma was... different. 

Making her feel good had been an extended courtesy because they not only lived together, but because they'd established some sort of bond and were _friends._ And friends helped each other out, didn't they? Friendships were built on foundations of mutual gratification, and her allowing him to live with him helped him inch closer to his goal of freedom, so making her writhe and wriggle with pleasure was the least he could do.

Except, he was pretty sure that friends also weren't supposed to be thinking about how much they wanted to re-enact those moments; lamenting about how her eyes weren't purely cornflower blue as he'd come to believe, instead containing flecks of gold that made themselves all the more apparent when her pupils were pinpricks and her skin was heated.

Vegeta was also pretty sure that friends weren't supposed to want to pull their names from their friend's lips over and over again, until they were hoarse and incapable of producing further sound.

Well, fuck.

He’d been careless. Not just with the lack of condom, or the fact that he’d banged the only honest friend he’d made in almost two decades (who he now had to live with indefinitely), but with the fact he’d allowed her to get so fucking close to him in the first place. So much so that Vegeta was laying in bed, trying diligently to ignore the still somewhat-damp spot next to his right thigh, agonising over their shifting dynamics.

The sound of rushing water that echoed through their apartment did little to soothe Vegeta's frayed nerves. In fact, it just served as a reminder that Bulma was ridding herself of all traces of him. That whatever he was feeling right now clearly wasn’t reciprocated.

She'd looked disgusted when she realised where she was, try as she might to mask it. He's seen it on her face, clear as the day, that she was nothing short of appalled, and it had thrown him for a loop.

_Oh, **no.**_ _No, no, **no.**_

Vegeta had known from the moment she crawled into his lap that she was going to regret their clumsy, drunken fumble. He'd never anticipated just how much. And how much her regret would wound his pride.  It's not that he actually _cared_ about her, that wasn't it at all, because he certainly didn't, but her rejection was just another addition to a long list of humiliating experiences and that _really_ fucking got to him.

Foolishly, he’d allowed himself to drift asleep entertaining the frankly stupid idea that things wouldn’t be _that_ bad in the morning. With their breathing levelling out, and a mixture of exhaustion, physical satisfaction, and whiskey imploring him to just close his eyes, Vegeta had simply drifted with Bulma already sound asleep by his side. For once Vegeta had just given in and gone with things, ignoring the damp patches on the sheets, and the way her backside slotted nicely against his groin, in the vain hope that maybe things wouldn’t be as awful and shitty as he’d come to expect.

He should have known things wouldn’t be that simple.

His entire life amounted to a cavalcade of poor decisions, fuck ups, and rebuffs from those who sought to enslave and humiliate him.

Bulma’s expression - that nauseating look of pure horror – had played on an endless loop inside of his head from the moment he’d seen it, and it ranked pretty highly on Vegeta’s list of ‘worst things he’d endured in his life (thus far)’. Which was _really_ saying something.

Who the fuck was she to reject him anyway?

She little more than a stuck up, spoilt, former princess with a big mouth and an inability to hold her liquor. She was nothing special. Bulma Briefs was --

\-- his friend.

She was his friend. And nice. And normal. And smart. And brimming with potential. And not embroiled in some illegal underground society.

Why did he even care? He shouldn't care. He _didn't_ care.                                                                                                        

So why was it bothering him so damn much?

_Please, Lord Frieza, I just --_  
  
_Shut up, you pathetic little monkey. You talk when I give you **permission** to talk. I will not allow such reckless pursuits among my ranks. I **allow** you to attend that pathetic institution as a kindness. Do not exploit my **nice side** by forming pathetic attachments that risk exposing our entire organisation._

_Sir, I promise you, it’s **not** like that. It could **never** be like that. I know my place.  
_

_Good. Discretion will keep you alive. That’s something that your worthless father could never quite understand._

Vegeta reached for his phone, still discarded on the floor next to his sweatpants, hoping for some sort of distraction; something to take his mind off of the fact that he'd had sexual intercourse with Bulma goddamn Briefs, and the pretty faces and noises she'd made while he was inside her.

Maybe there’d be some sort of job waiting for him, orders from Frieza, or even just paperwork he’d forgotten to file. Something, _anything_ to distract him from the shit show he’d embroiled himself in.

He'd missed little, if anything at all. There were no texts from Frieza or his henchmen, no matter that urgently needed his attendance. Raditz had sent him a picture message in the early hours of the morning, his arm slung around some random red-head while Nappa chatted up a disinterested brunette in the background. The accompanying text gloating that Vegeta had evidentially missed out on a spectacular night graphically detailed exactly what Raditz and his new friend had gotten up to.

Vegeta's lip curled up in distaste, swiftly deleting the photo and laying back on his bed with a heavy huff.

Fuck, Raditz.

The gravity of their changed dynamic very nearly knocked Vegeta breathless.

At the time taking Bulma to bed had filled him with a smug satisfaction; the knowledge that _he_ had beat Raditz when it came to the woman making him cocky. Payback for all the bullshit the other man had put him through now.

Now he felt almost… _guilty_ at the prospect of Raditz finding out. Which was as new as it was alarming. Vegeta was hyperaware now, with his sheets stained and his dignity in tatters, that Raditz would undoubtedly feel betrayed by both Vegeta _and_ Bulma, should he find out. Aware that for him it was more than just a crush rooted in sexual desire. Raditz actually cared for Bulma. Actually wanted to be with her for more than a night.

Vegeta didn't know what to do now.

Bulma had been right about one thing: he'd fully intended on fucking off out of their apartment for the foreseeable future, perhaps forever, because he lacked the emotion capacity to deal with the consequences of thinking with his dick for once. The idea of sticking around now and dealing with an indefinite stream of awkward interactions loaded with the malingering knowledge of what they’d done.

_How old are you?_

Bulma wasn’t like the hookers or biddable little puppets that circles around Frieza like vermin. He didn’t care, had never cared, what _they_ thought of him, or his performance.

Vegeta cared about Bulma’s opinion of him.

_Old enough._

Her palpable regret weighing down on him and adding to the overwhelming sense of degradation that already dominated his life… it would be unbearable. The one thing in his life vaguely resembling a refuge from the shit storm had been soiled, through his own actions, and Vegeta didn’t want to hang around any longer than he had to.  

But she'd asked him to stay.

She'd asked him to stay, with the sweetest expression on her face, in the same way she'd pled with him to go faster, harder, deeper, until she was a sobbing, pliant, shuddering mess beneath his body. The juxtaposition between her then, and the stricken way she'd looked at him upon first waking up was giving him fucking whiplash.

_There are things I can't talk to Goku or the others about, and... I can with you_

What did that even mean?

He couldn’t figure out just exactly what Bulma wanted from him, couldn’t work out what _he_ wanted from _her_. What she said and what she did were so contradictory, and it felt as though he was the perpetual butt of her jokes. He hated her, wanted to wrap his hands around her frail little shoulders and just _shake_ and demand that she stop playing with him. He could easily close his fingers around her throat and squeeze until her cheeks matched her hair, and then this would all be over.

But he couldn’t, wouldn’t.

The water turned off, and Vegeta eyed his bedroom door warily. He could still leave, still had time to just grab the bag of money, forget everything else, and hightail it out of there.

_“VEGETA!”_

Her screeching cut through that idea like a sword. Before Vegeta could react, his bedroom door was thrown open with alarming force, the hinges rattling. “VEGETA BREIGH, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO ME?”

Clad only in a towel, Bulma stood in the doorway with one of her little hands curled into firsts at her side. Her hair was slick against her skull, her face red either from the heat of her shower or through fury. She pointed to her throat with her free hand, a huge purpling bruise marring the flesh. There were several small puncture wounds, and the contrast between the injury and the pale milky white of her skin was almost violent.

More than that, her entire body seemed to be covered in smaller, lighter bruises; tiny circles mapping each and every location his hands had journeyed, and revisiting each spot began to rouse the same feelings that had gotten them into this mess.

As subtly as he could, Vegeta took one of his pillows and placed it over his crotch. “What is it now, woman?”

“What is it? Are you fucking _blind_ ,” she stabbed at the bruise again. “You _bit_ me!”

“That's what you're shrieking about?”

“Yes! Do you know how hard this is going to be to cover up? Dammit, Vegeta, did you get hungry half-way through or something? It looks like you tried to rip my throat out.”

“I...” Vegeta attempted to formulate an excuse, but he couldn't think of anything beyond ' _it helped me  last longer than thirty seconds'_ or _'you actually tasted pretty good when I broke the_ _skin'_ , and he didn't think she'd appreciate either answer. “I don't remember.”

“The giant, ugly hickey on my neck remembers!”

“Well how was I supposed to know you're so weak that you'd practically fall apart at the slightest touch?”

“Because I’m a regular human being who happens to bleed and bruise when people bite them?” Bulma huffed. “Did you at least make sure I peed afterwards?”

Of all the things he’d expected her to say, mostly chewing him out with long lists of obscenities that would put even the potty mouthed cretins under Frieza’s employ to shame, he had never anticipated that particular turn of conversation. Feeling as though he clearly must have misheard her, Vegeta sat up a little further. “Wait, what?”

“Last night. After you ate my neck and we finished up, did you remind me to go pee?”

“No? Why the fuck would I do that?”

Bulma shot him a withering look of intermingling disbelief and agitation. “Oh my god, Vegeta. Do you know nothing about women? If I end up with a UTI I’m totally kicking your ass.” Bulma planted her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed and bottom lip jutting out. Vegeta, lost by the conversation, and oddly charmed by her grumpy expression, couldn’t help but laugh.  “You're a giant dick.”

Feeling surprisingly unlike himself, Vegeta smirked. “Thank you.”

“Woah there mister, that's _not_ what I was talking about,” Bulma said, for once looking hot and embarrassed. It was a nice feeling; a swell of superiority because Vegeta had finally made _her_ vaguely uncomfortable regarding the subject of sex.” But congratulations, by the way. Clearly those inches robbed from you in terms of height were put to good use in other places.”

It had been a nice moment while it lasted, a nice moment of finally having the upper hand while she squirmed uncomfortably. But, as was the case with most remotely pleasant things in his life, it hadn’t been meant to last.

Sensing his weakness, Bulma smirked salaciously, her eyes flicking downwards towards Vegeta’s crotch. “At least I understand your giant _ego_ now.”

Vegeta choked, gasping wildly for a clear and easy breath while Bulma primped her hair. She was more than content with her victory; she was flourishing in it. “You lewd bitch.”

“You seemed to like that about me last night.”

Her voice had dropped low, the hands on her hips smoothing down her thighs, hiking up the towel a fraction of an inch as she did so. The mischief dancing in Bulma’s eyes told Vegeta that she was merely teasing him, but even with that knowledge burning at the forefront of his mind, he couldn’t help the way his throat suddenly constricted, nor the sudden rising tempo of his heart beat that accompanied an unwelcomed rush of blood to the lower half of his body.

“You’re a goddamn bitch.”

“I know.”

\--------

The incessant knocking was beginning to piss him off.

Vegeta paused midway through his (one-hundred-and-fifty-seventh) push up and scowled at his bedroom door, as if it could somehow communicate his mounting displeasure to the apartment door through some sort of weird, furniture related telepathy.

The knocking had begun several minutes ago, and he’d expected _someone_ , namely a very un-busy Bulma, to have answered it by now, or for the person on the other side to get the hint and kindly fuck off.  

A bead of sweat tricking down his brow and landing beside his hand, Vegeta resumed his push up. The knocking continued.

Where the hell was Bulma?

Maybe she’d slipped into a hangover induced coma, which wouldn’t be _awful_ for him, current predicament aside. It would reduce the likelihood of awkward post-sex encounters from ‘ _holy shit, why did I think fucking my roommate was a good idea? I can’t even go to the fridge without bumping into you and imagining you naked_ ’ to practically zero, and he wouldn’t have to worry about her using his protein powders as though they were simply milkshakes, or inviting over her dumbass friends and forcing him to socialise with them.

Vegeta would probably have to cover her share of the rent, though. If she was unconscious she wouldn’t be able to work, which would increase his financial burden and make his moving in with her in the first place completely redundant.

_Shit_.

The knocking became more insistent.

With a huff Vegeta abandoned his workout routine, ignoring the towel slung over the edge of his bed in favour of confronting the idiot who dared to disturb him head on. And possibly checking in with Bulma just to make sure she was still alive, and hadn’t actually died due to a combination of alcohol poisoning and shame.

Leaving his room with a deliberate slam of his door, Vegeta threw open the apartment door with the same ferocity. “Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not fucking interested…” Vegeta trailed off when the familiarity of the cold caller kicked in, eyes narrowing to a displeased squint. “ _You_. _”_

Scar Face stood in the doorway, looking rightfully as though he were mere moments away from shitting himself in fear, a bouquet of cheap flowers hanging limply in his left hand. He held up his right hand in a defensive half wave, as if to distract Vegeta from the way his adam’s apple visibly hitched. “Hey, uh, Vegeta, right? Is Bulma around?”

Something about the man simply rubbed Vegeta the wrong way. He inherently disliked most people; other human beings were too loud, too arrogant, too annoying, but this asshole in particular had a face that Vegeta wanted to pummel into the ground, though he suspected Bulma might have something to say about _that_.

“Probably.”

Scar Face took a tentative step towards the door. “Can I come in and talk to her?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

Scar Face took a deep, shuddering breath to steady himself, his eyes momentarily fluttering closed. “Look man, I know things got kinda tense last night, but this is important.”

“I somehow highly doubt that.” Vegeta snorted. Moving out of the way, Vegeta stepped further into the apartment. “Woman,” he shouted towards the hallway that joined their two rooms. “One of your idiot friends is here. Hurry up and deal with him, his presence is already pissing me off.”

Bulma’s door opened a crack, her head popping out. She looked like absolute shit, her skin pale and with a greenish hue, her hair fluffy and still damp on the ends. She scowled at Vegeta, clearly pissed off that he’d dared disturbed her slumber, before her eyes glided over to Scar Face and her expression became utterly furious.

“Crap, hang on,” Bulma said, before disappearing back into her room, muffled cursing emanating from behind the door. Vegeta could just about make out the words ‘asshole’ and ‘mother fucker’, but beyond that it was garbled nonsense.

Vegeta and Scar Face stood in awkward silence in the little kitchenette, Vegeta leaning against the counter, arms crossed, while Scar Face shifted his weight from foot to foot. Several times the latter tried to initiate conversation, but Vegeta ignored him with a roll of his eyes or click of his tongue.

Eventually Bulma emerged from her room, looking fractionally less bedraggled and somewhat closer to her usual self, wearing a cropped shirt that displayed her midriff, but sported a neckline that extended to just under her jaw. Vegeta felt himself grow hot, making a point to look anywhere other than her throat.

“Why are you here, Yamcha?” Bulma asked, electing to torment Vegeta further by choosing to join him so closely on the countertop that their arms brushed.

“I wanted to see if you were okay after last night,” Yamcha replied, stretching the bouquet out towards her. Watching her reject Scar Face was oddly soothing, but Vegeta crushed that thought before it could gather momentum and evolve into something far more insidious.

The flowers went by ignored, “I'm _super_. No thanks to you.”

Bulma’s proximity was stifling, cloying. He didn’t know how she could stand it; so casually and easily placing herself in his company after all that had happened. She was practically sociopathic.

Unable to stand under the burden of such overwhelming …guilt?, Vegeta pushed off of the counter with an exaggerated sigh. “As much as I’d like to stick around and have my brain cells commit suicide listening to this _riveting_ exchange, I have shit to do.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best. This is a private conversation between me and Bulma anyway,” Yamcha replied easily, _smugly_. If life were fair or kind in any way, he’d be able to beat the guy into a bloody, twitching pulp to his heart’s content. But life was cruel, and he knew that if he drew any sort of attention to himself – including beating up incompetent losers – there would be hell to pay.

With Frieza and Bulma both.

\--------

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me!”

Bulma’s shriek echoed through the apartment, forcing a break in Vegeta’s concentration.  

The arguing had begun almost immediately after he had retreated to his room, though it was nothing like the explosive, but almost therapeutic, verbal sparring matches that he and the woman shared. This was bitter, angry, ruthlessly aggressive. He _almost_ felt a degree of sympathy for the bumbling idiot no doubt awkwardly shuffling about his kitchen.

Almost, had it not been for the fact that Vegeta a) hated other people, Yamcha in particular, and b) was relishing in Bulma’s ire being directed anywhere other than him.

Honestly, it’s what he’d expected – and certainly deserved – this morning. The fact that her unyielding rage was directed somewhere else was almost pleasant.

“I didn’t _do_ anything, just listen to me for once in your life, would you?”

Vegeta had tried to drown them out as he worked through the rest of his exercise regiment, focusing on the push and pull of his muscles, and the familiar, almost comforting ache that worked its way through his body, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on his katas _and_ pay attention to the escalating arguments at the same time.

“You know how hard it was for me to walk away from Capsule Corp.,” Bulma said, the pitch of her voice rising. “You know how much I lost, and you're _still_ palling around with my mom and dad.”

“C'mon, this is a total overreaction!”

Vegeta rolled his eyes.

“Overreaction?! I had to give up _everything_ I had. Everything I'd worked my entire life for, just so I could be happy. You of all people know how much I struggled.”

“And we both know how prone you are to over-reacting. Like all the times I apparently 'cheated' on you”

_That fucking **moron.**_ Vegeta fell back mid sit-up, shaking his head at the sheer stupidity he was witnessing. Or, more accurately, overhearing. He could practically see Bulma’s expression of furious bewilderment.

“Oh my god, Yamcha.”

“What is your problem anyway? You're making such a big deal out of this, but you _liked_ working with your dad when we were kids.”

“Exactly. Liked, not loved. I want more from my life than just settling for something I like. I want _adventure,_ and fun, and the romance of being in love with my life!”

“So, you're going to settle for chasing the impossible instead? Bulma, this is all just a silly dream! If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. Just go home. Your parents are worried about you. I'm worried about you.”

Vegeta contemplated just going out there and forcing his knuckled down Yamcha’s throat, tossing him to the curb by the collar of his cheap shirt. It would certainly make him feel better.

“Who cares if it's stupid, and everything goes wrong. I'm not going to compromise and play along with your perfunctory ideas of love and ambition. You can tell my parents not to worry about me, and maybe it's for the best if we don't hang out for a while.”

“If you keep pushing people away, pretty soon you’re going to have no one left.”

“Excuse me?”

“Launch. Tien. _Me_. You can’t keep thinning out the list.”

“What about Raditz and Goku? Or Chi Chi? Or Vegeta? You know, the people who actually bother to hang out with me on a regular basis.”

“Wow, two thugs who’ll never amount to anything, and the couple who had to drop out of high school because they got themselves knocked up before graduation.”

“Woah, _asshole_ , Goku and Chi Chi are your friends too, and I don’t think they’d be happy knowing that you talk about them like that behind their backs. And how dare you look down your nose at Raditz and Vegeta. You’re just so insecure about your own damn self you refuse to give either of them a real chance.”

“Oh please, they don’t need a chance, I can see right through them. They want to bang you, that’s it.”

“Not everything is about sex, Yamcha! It was Ray who swung by my place _every_ week after Launch left to make sure I was okay, Ray who helped me find a new roommate so I could actually pay the bills and afford to eat. Vegeta is the smartest person I know outside of my dad and I, and he’s been a damn good friend to me. Just because you think with your dick, it doesn’t mean we all do.”

Vegeta was glad he’d stayed in his room, his heart hammering painfully in the cavity of his chest. His fingers curled into the fabric of his damp t-shirt. He didn’t know what to say – how to breathe, even. The circuitry in Vegeta’s brain had shorted out with a spark and a hiss of smoke, and all he could do is sit slack jawed, soaked in his own sweat, trying to form an at least somewhat coherent thought.

“Why is everything a damn fight with you, Bulma? Why can’t you just be easy?”

“So I can be a pushover just like you?”

“Bulma...”

“Good luck with the Taitans, Yamcha. It must be nice when your friends support your dreams enough to see them turn into reality.”

Vegeta heard the apartment door open and shut in quick succession, heard Bulma’s heavy footfalls as she stomped back towards the private refuge of her room. Her bedroom door slammed shut, and Vegeta took that as his cue to leave his own room. He lingered at her door, his fingers curling together to form a fist that hesitantly hovered just centimetres away from the wood, but never quite made contact.

What would he even say to her?

Mortification and discomfiture demanded that he turn tail and run, but pride demanded that he stand his ground and confront her head on.

Fate made the decision for Vegeta, when the front door rattled with a knock once again, this time far more insistent than the last.

The moron was back.

Abandoning Bulma’s door in favour for the other, Vegeta stalked back towards the apartment entrance, flinging the door open with an aggravated huff. “Look, moron, she clearly doesn't want to talk to you, so why don't you get the hell out of my a--”

“I know you Saiyan’s lack the more refined social qualities of your superiors, but I never anticipated such an uncivilised greeting.”

The cool, collected timber of that _painfully_ familiar voice, forced Vegeta into action. In an instant Zarbon was pinned against the opposite wall, the apartment door slamming shut behind them; Vegeta’s forearm locked tight against the other man’s throat. With his free hand Vegeta reached for his gun, realising belatedly that he’d been too preoccupied with the shit storm of a morning to have brought it with him.

Vegeta could feel his veins thrumming, the rising tide of his insides threatening to overspill. Zarbon was at his apartment, unannounced and with no prior warning that he even knew where Vegeta lived, and he didn’t know what to do. He had long since stopped fearing Zarbon, and yet the panic swelling within him reminded him of all the times he’d gone to great lengths to stay out of Zarbon’s way as a child.

He felt powerless.

Vegeta loosened his grip on Zarbon just a fraction, not enough to relinquish control, but enough to avoid getting into serious trouble should Frieza’s right-hand be calling upon him in a business sense. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“What's that old cliché? Oh, I remember; I was just in the neighbourhood and thought I'd pop by,” Zarbon said, the corner of his lips quirking upwards despite his precarious position.

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, okay, you caught me,” Zarbon replied smoothly, amber eyes steady and focused. Unsettling. Almost reptilian. “Your reaction to my line of questioning yesterday was quite intriguing, so of course I felt obligated to do my research. Bulma Briefs, eh? My, my, you have set you sights high, haven't you? Never in a million years would I have guessed that you and _Raditz_ of all people would brush shoulders with such affluent, upstanding members of society.”

So, it was because of _her_.

Vegeta felt feverish, his skin cold and clammy while his blood boiled furiously. He looked to the door, hoping, _begging_ that the gods, should they exist, that they keep Bulma locked away in the relative safety of her room. He knew, categorically, that in a one-on-one fight he could take Zarbon on and win, even if he would come out of the fight worse for wear. But trying to protect her, should push come to shove, would make things infinitely more difficult, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to ensure her safety _and_ keep Zarbon from gaining the upper hand.

Did he have to save her?

He’d left the women and children unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire of their husband and father’s poor decisions in the company of monsters like Zarbon _hundreds_ of times in the past. He’d walked away from their pleas for mercy, walked away from their agonised screams, walked away from the inevitable fired shot once Frieza’s men had had their fill.

He’d done so for years with no real regret. Their world was cruel, and in a never-ending battle for survival weaknesses such as pity or sympathy could end up costing lives.

Vegeta could leave Bulma behind with the same cold, callous manner he’d left all of those other’s behind in the past, couldn’t he?

Vegeta glanced back at the door, shifting his body and placing himself much more deliberately between Zarbon and it, blood roaring in his ears. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Come now, Vegeta. While you fail to meet my level of intelligence, surely you’re smart enough to know of the dossiers Frieza keeps on all of his employees.”

“How did you find out about _her._ ”

“Admittedly _that_ required a little digging, but your spectacular display yesterday and freshly grown _conscious_ aroused my curiosity, and I simply couldn’t resist. I wanted to see for myself what kind of girl could have possibly stolen the _Prince’s_ heart.”

The grin that stole upon Zarbon’s face was positively devilish, and so self-assured that Vegeta battled with the idea that, somehow, Zarbon _knew,_ and by falling into bed with her Vegeta had essentially put a giant target on Bulma’s head.

How easy would it be for Frieza to have bugged him? The car? His clothing? The burners and scouters that he handed out to the higher ranking officials like candy?

Hell, even the cash could be tapped or bugged in some manner, and Vegeta had been a goddamned idiot not to consider the fact earlier.

Fuck.

They’d have heard everything, they’d _know_ everything.

Bulma was going to die because of him.

“Is that pretty boy I passed in the hallway part of your arrangement?” Zarbon asked, his smile broadening. “I must say, I definitely approve of him. If I knew you were so much fun I’d have tried a little harder to play nice with you during our youth. Still, one can’t dwell on the past, and I stole enough of your _toys_ to get an idea of just what it is that you like.”

“You disgust me.”

“She’s not my usual type, I must admit, but I’m more than willing to test drive the illustrious fallen Capsule Corporation heiress, if only just to see what it is about her that gets Saiyan cocks so hard.”

Something inside of Vegeta snapped. He felt it, like the strings of a bow stretched far beyond its physical limitations.

“If you touch her,” Vegeta seethed, making absolutely no attempt to reign his anger in, his fingers curled tight around Zarbon’s wrist, undoubtedly leaving a mark. He could break it so easily, was perilously close to applying the right amount of pressure in the wrong direction and allowing the bone to snap in his grip. Frieza would probably have him beaten half to death for it, but it would be worth it just to hear that agonised wail. “If you so much as _breath_ near her, I _will_ kill you.”

“Tease,” Zarbon chuckled, puffing up so that the buttons of his shirt began to strain against his chest. “Subtlety simply isn't your forte, is it? Though, I should have expected as much. A brute like you could never grasp the complexities of delicacy.”

“Is that all you have to say?” Vegeta hissed. “Pathetic.”

“Does she like it rough? Is it a thrill for her to slum it with the dregs of society? _Does rolling around in the dirt with a bunch of cultureless monkeys get her_ _cunt wet_?”

Vegeta heard the strangled growl that ripped from his throat long before he was aware of the fact that he was the source of the sound. Without being aware of how, he was nose to nose with Zarbon, his lungs alight and his fist throbbing due to its sudden proximity to the wall next to Zarbon’s cheek.

Zarbon’s pupils momentarily dilated, and Vegeta saw the quick, shuddering inhale pulled through trembling lips, the arrogant pretence dropped.

It was the first time in seventeen years he’d truly seen Zarbon scared. And it was because of _him_.

He was unconquerable.

“Vegeta, is everything alright, I thought I heard yelling. If that’s Yamcha crawling back here with his tail between his legs, you can tell him to suck my dick. Vegeta’s head snapped to the apartment door as his newly acquired empire fell to ruin to the melody of Bulma’s voice. Her eyes were large with confusion, pale fingers gripping the doorframe tightly, anxiously. He saw her foot twitch and hoped that she remained where she was. Safe. “What’s going on? Who is this?”

Vegeta’s world began to cave in on itself.

Zarbon chuckled, purposely pushing against the constraints. Vegeta’s grip slackened, and he could feel himself beginning to spiral; tumbling further away from control. His limbs were numb, and he was barely able to register Zarbon easily freeing himself from Vegeta’s grasp and pushing him aside. “Yes, _Prince_ , I think it’s high time you introduced me to your enchanting little companion.”

Paralyzed, he could only watch on helplessly as a gruesome scene played out before his eyes; Bulma’s fingers drifted from the door frame, coming together and extending outwards towards Zarbon. Free from his prison, Zarbon stepped forward to meet her, his large hand engulfing her tiny one. The look she gave him was almost spellbound, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. “’Enchanting’? Wow, you’re a real charmer, huh? You’re definitely nothing like Vegeta.”

Zarbon shot Vegeta a wry look. “We do have our similarities, I’d even be so bold as to argue that in some ways we’re very alike, especially when it comes to our work ethic. My name is Zarbon, I’m a long time _friend_ of your acquaintance, he’s more like my younger brother, in fact. And who might you be?”

“I’m Bulma,” the wary look in her eyes had returned, and she retracted her hand. “Funny, Vegeta’s never mentioned _you_ before.”

“How very suspicious indeed,” Zarbon replied, eyes closing the gap between them even further. Bulma glanced at Vegeta, questioning, anxious, and he finally felt the invisible shackles that had immobilised him fall away. “Perhaps he’s simply embarrassed of me. It’s hard, always living in the shadow of someone else.”

“Go,” Vegeta said, his voice low. He placed himself purposefully between Zarbon and Bulma, one arm extended out behind him as a means of shielding her. “Now.”

“Where are your manners? I would have thought your father had taught you better, but then again your father’s parenting skills were…  well, negligible would be putting it kindly,” Zarbon’s eyes narrowed, though he still brought the tips of his fingers to his lips to blow a kiss in Bulma’s direction. “Still, I do have business to attend to elsewhere. Until we meet again, Ms. Briefs. Perhaps I’ll stop by The Lookout in the near future and we can resume our little chat there. In _private_.”

Vegeta felt his heart stammer as he struggled with the desire to remain rooted firmly in place as to act like a shield between his roommate and Frieza’s underling, and darting after Zarbon and beating him into a bloody pulp as he turned to leave.

Instinct begged him to go with the former, to stand his ground and protect Bulma until he could be certain that she was safe, protected. He watched as Zarbon disappeared down the corridor, whistling a tune that sounded eerily similar to the one Frieza would hum as he toyed with his prey.

“I never told him my surname or where I worked,” Bulma said quietly, audibly swallowing. Vegeta didn’t want to look at her, both concerned with the fact that Zarbon could return at any moment, and still suffering with the indignity of her weighted regret. “What’s going on?”  

The whistling faded into silence, and footfalls no longer echoed down along the halls of the apartment building. Vegeta swore that if he strained his ears he could almost hear the faint ding of the elevator chiming into action, but he couldn’t be certain that it was real, or just a hopeful projection. Minutes passed with nothing but the muted bustling of their neighbours TV accompanying them, and he allowed himself to relax.

Satisfied that Zarbon was gone, Vegeta slowly turned to face Bulma and offered her a nonchalant shrug. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

He had to figure out his next step, what the fuck he was going to do next.

“’Don’t worry about it’, you’re kidding, right? That’s creepy as hell. Vegeta, if there’s something I should know about…”

“Drop it,” Vegeta snapped. “I said don’t worry about it, didn’t I? Get off my fucking back. This doesn’t concern you.”

He pushed past her, ignoring the rising, shrill string of obscenities thrown his way as he stormed through the apartment and into his room. She was still swearing when he returned a few minutes later, car keys in hand, and for a weak, split second Vegeta couldn’t help but admire the power of her ire. It suited her, in the strangest of ways, and it helped him regain a semblance of control.

“Vegeta, where the hell are you g--”                                                                                      

“I need to go out,” Vegeta said, cutting her off. Bulma’s face well, wavering between hurt and angry, but settling on the former. With a grunt Vegeta added, “I'll be back soon. It's just work shit.”

He didn’t stick around long enough to listen to her indignant protests and demands for further information.

\--------

“So, Zarbon threatened the girl, 'eh?”

Nappa placed a cup of coffee in front of Vegeta as he spoke, nursing his own cup between his giant hands and trying not to pass out. He was starting to look old; the hair on his head having abandoned ship years ago, while his once dark moustache produced more and more grey hairs with each passing day. The dark rings under his eyes did nothing to help him, either, accentuating the deep lines that surrounded them.

Unwilling to cooperate and answer, Vegeta sipped at his drink, pulling a face when he realised that rather than the delicious blends he had become accustomed to in recent weeks, it was cheap granulated shit that was store bought.

He had very few vices in his life, but apparently a decent, freshly-brewed coffee was one of them. 

With nowhere else to turn, and at a loss as to what to do next, Vegeta had lowered himself to calling on his former guardian and current underling for advice, which is how he found himself sat in his sort-of childhood home, drinking sludge barely passable for coffee, and attempting to formulate a plan.

Nappa's place was surprisingly tidy, especially given the fact he shared it with Raditz. It was certainly neater than Vegeta remembered it being, though when he'd last lived with Nappa the older man had been attempting to wrangle two teenagers on opposing ends of the hormonal scale (one channelling surging testosterone into mindless violence, the other into more _pleasurable_ outlets), and so maintaining a clutter-free home environment had hardly been a priority.

Vegeta had moved out as soon as he was legally able; unable and unwilling to handle the almost stifling presence of the last real connection to his father any longer. Raditz's relatively new and sudden intrusion into his life had also thrown a spanner into the works, loud and brash as he was, and the constant moaning about parent-sibling favouritism (as well as his annoying insistence that _they_ were practically brothers now) had pushed Vegeta out of his home sooner rather than later.

Still, little echoes of his time spent sheltered beneath Nappa's wing remained, most notably the framed diploma hanging on one of the otherwise bare walls.

Attending his high school graduation ceremony ranked pretty highly on Vegeta's list of 'Worst Things To Have Ever Happened'. The whole affair was awkward, and he'd tried to avoid it, but Nappa was eager for Vegeta to experience what would likely be the last 'normal' teenage life-event, and Frieza was absolute in his command that they couldn't draw unnecessary attention to themselves, and so he'd been stuck sweltering from the heat and the indignity of it all, wearing an awful mustard and burgundy gown. 

_Your mom would be proud of you, squirt._

_My mother isn't here._

Vegeta had trashed the diploma almost immediately after it was placed in his hands, only to find, some months down the line, that the bald buffoon had fished it out of the garbage can and kept it for prosperities sake.

Or, at least, as tangible proof that Nappa had done a semi-decent job at convincing the world that Vegeta wasn't a glorified child slave running drugs for pocket money.

_You got real talent kid, you know that? You're smart. You can be anything you want. You need to make a plan for when you get away from all this._

_  
I just need to live long enough to piss on that bastard's grave. Beyond that, I simply don't care._

Prior to his departure from their shared home Nappa had, for reasons still unknown to Vegeta, tried convincing Frieza that a college education would ultimately benefit the Cold's and their quest for power, had even offered to fund Vegeta's education himself, somehow, but Frieza had shot down such ideas without any consideration.

For that small mercy, Vegeta was glad.

“Where’s Raditz?” Vegeta asked, eyes skimming the room as Nappa dipped a donut into his coffee. There was no sign of additional life anywhere, nothing to suggest that Raditz was home, but he had to be certain.

“He went out. Said he was going to find somethin’ greasy to line his stomach, then hit the gym.”

Vegeta nodded in approval, allowing himself to relax incrementally. Raditz would only serve to rile him up; to encourage swift, merciless, violent action against Zarbon that would likely cost them their lives.

Vegeta was suddenly more aware of the gun in his pocket that he had been in the frenzied moments he’d shoved it there before darting out of his apartment. Its weight was almost oppressive, as though it demanded his attention, and Vegeta’s fingers itched to take her for a ride; to place the muzzle against Zarbon’s temple and just _squeeze,_ to relish in the hot splattering of brain and blood and skin against his face, and bask in the relief of it all.

It was a dangerous thought, a desire that he needed to crush down before it overwhelmed him and drove itself into a reality that he wasn’t ready – physically or mentally – to face. He couldn’t compromise his ultimate goal, couldn’t be goaded by Raditz into tossing away everything he had worked so hard for, due to an impassioned, heat-of-the-moment whim.  

Aware that he'd lost focus and had slipped off into a daydream, Vegeta drained the rest of his coffee. “He was at the apartment. Zarbon, not Raditz.”

“Well shit,” Nappa said, dragging a hand along his jawline. “You musta really pissed him off yesterday.”

“Astute observation,” Vegeta drawled.  “My very existence pisses Zarbon off. That doesn't help my current situation.”

Nappa seemed to ponder the statement for a few seconds, sipping at his drink as the cogs turned in his brain. “I’m sorry about yesterday, kid. I just wanted to fuck with you and Radi for a bit, I didn’t think it would go this far.”

Vegeta considered berating Nappa further, but he had nothing new, nothing productive, he could add that hadn’t already been said. He merely grunted in response instead, his fingers tightening around cheap white china. “I don’t trust him,” Vegeta confessed, staring into the cup. The granules that had failed to properly dissolve had collected and melted together to form an oozing viscous that clung desperately to the china.

Nappa hummed in agreement. “You shouldn’t. He’s a slippery little cunt.”

“So what should I do?”

“Honestly? Nothin’.”

“ _Nothing_?” Vegeta asked, slamming the coffee cup against the table. “What kind of cowardly response is _that_?”

“A fuckin’ smart one. You won’t win this fight.”

“You know I could kill him as I am now. Dodoria too. _Easily._ ”

“I don't doubt it, kiddo, but ya know what Lord Frieza does to traitors. 'Specially those who kill one of their own. You could handle those two punks in ya sleep. But the whole of the Frieza Force _an'_ probably a bunch of Cold and Cooler's private staff? You’re not a god.”

Loathe as he was to admit it, Nappa had a point. The entirety of the Colds' cabal would rain down on him in an instant if they suspected he was turning against them. It's why Vegeta had planned his movements after he acquired his freedom to perfection, knowing that his window of opportunity was exceptionally slim.

Killing Zarbon and Dodoria, while not only interfering with his goal of making _Frieza_ his first murder victim, would likely ensure his own premature death, which royally fucked up his goal of exacting revenge.

“Then what the hell do you propose I do? You know as well as I what those two are capable of.”

“Those chuckle fucks won't do shit. The girl has connections to you _and_ Raditz. Anythin' happens to her and Frieza is implicated. She's too rich, too high profile. People'll ask too many questions if anythin’ happens to her. Zarbon's just tryin' to get under ya skin.”

“And what if he's not? We all know Frieza's nepotism knows no bounds.”

Nappa rose to his feet wordlessly, pushing away from the table, the legs of his chair screeching against the cheap vinyl flooring. He disappeared into his bedroom, only to return a few moments later with a thick folder that he promptly dumped in front of Vegeta.

“Zarbon’s careful. Smart. He cleans up after himself, so even if you know he did it, there ain’t nothin’ to pin on him. Dodoria… Dodoria ain’t so bright.”

Vegeta opened the folder up at random, thumbing through the pages with cautious interest, until realisation began to dawn. His heart began to thump in his chest, almost gleefully, with each sentence he skimmed, a callous smirk forcing his lips to twitch upwards.

“Dodoria has been trading with rival gangs, right under Frieza’s nose?” Vegeta turned a few more pages, laughing to himself as he browsed the catalogue of evidence. Copies of text and email exchanges, photographs, contracts, receipts. An entire dossier of incriminating evidence, enough to force Dodoria to his death, should he present it to Frieza. To break the weak link in Zarbon’s chain and then some. “That fat fucking moron. He was working with the Red Ribbon gang the entire time the Colds were battling with them for South City?”

“Yup,” Nappa said quietly.

“How? How the hell did you get all of this?”

“You’re not the only one who wants out of this shit storm. I’m not gettin’ any younger, ya know. Dodoria asked me to fix his books for him way back, and I noticed he was recievin’ some pretty fat deposits from Red and his cronies.  Like I said, he’s not exactly the smartest cookie. I thought if I kept an eye on him… maybe one day I could exchange this information with Frieza for a pretty retirement fund.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

“And risk getting’ myself killed? I’m not as stupid as I look,” Nappa let out a long sigh, crossing his arms and curling his fingers around his forearm. “You have to be careful with this. If you use this… you’re basically declaring war on two of the most powerful members that the Frieza Force has to offer. Perhaps in the entire Cold clan.”

“Well I’m sure as shit not going to sit back and do nothing. Not with this weapon in my arsenal.”

“Vegeta?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Why are you so interested in keepin' that girl safe? You know you can tell me.”

The old man looked so exhausted, so worn, that Vegeta considered telling Nappa everything; relaying the events of the night before, attempting to explain the foreign, but so fucking _possessive_ , compulsion to nurture and protect that swept over him whenever he so much as looked at Bulma. Perhaps Nappa would be able to help him make sense of it all, as incompetent as Nappa could be, he still had several decades of experience over Vegeta, and he’d proven himself to be worthy enough by providing him with enough evidence to take down Dodoria, and by extension, Zarbon.  

He tamped the desire down, feeling ashamed of himself for even contemplating an act of such weakness. Confiding in the other man, trying to explain away thoughts he was incapable of naming, felt not only like opening up his shirt and placing the muzzle of Nappa’s gun right against his chest, but wrapping his hand around the older man’s and forcing him to squeeze the trigger.

Not to mention, if he admitted to Nappa that he was right to some degree, that the waters of their friendship had been muddied by the fact that he’d had sex with Bulma, he’d never hear the end of it. Raditz would certainly find out, and he’d probably never talk to Vegeta ever again. Which would be a good thing. Sort of.

If not for the fact Vegeta relied heavily on Raditz. Implicitly trusted him to have his back during situations that could easily go south and see them buried in shallow graves. The crush Raditz harboured for Bulma was so pathetically blatant, so nurtured, that he’d probably toss Vegeta to the wolves at the first opportunity he got.

And he’d probably be genuinely heartbroken.

Fuck, why did he even care about Raditz at all?  

Vegeta swallowed thickly, pretending to pay interest to the dossier once more. “Personal investment. I've worked too damn hard to get to where I am today. If something happens to her and it can be traced back to me somehow, I can kiss any sort of life outside of the Frieza Force goodbye.”

“Bullshit,” Nappa fired back. “I think you like her. An' you're worried that somethin' is gonna happen to her. Like that other girl, when Zarbon--”

  _Youre monsters! All of you. I never want to see you again._

White. That’s all Vegeta could see as he struggled to contain his fury.

The table landed on its side with a crack, the chair Vegeta had been sat on it joining it. The coffee cups splintered on impact, several shards landing at Vegeta’s feet, droplets of coffee staining the now scattered papers from the folder.

“Shut your goddamn mouth, Nappa,” he hissed. “You never know when to just stop fucking talking, do you?”

Nappa was unflinching in the face of Vegeta’s anger, instead calmly sinking to his knees to retrieve the various snippets of evidence and reassemble them. “You know what happened with her wasn’t your fault, right squirt?”

“I told you to shut your fucking mouth,” Vegeta kicked at the papers in Nappa’s hand, dispersing them once more. The temptation to raise his foot a few inches, to slam his heal straight into the old man’s jaw and feel it give way under his weight, was almost overwhelming. “This is _nothing_ like that. _That_ was nothing. I thought I told you to never, _ever_ talk about that.”

“Sorry, kid. I'm really fuckin' sorry.”                                     

“Tell Raditz about _any_ of this and you’ll regret it.”

\--------

The key turned in the lock, and Vegeta knew, without even looking, that she was brooding on the fire escape.

He had intended on retreating to his bedroom and sleeping the complete shit storm of a day away, to try and gain some sort of repose before being forced to endure yet another miserable, equally shitty day where he’d be forced to confront Bulma, Zarbon _and_ Nappa. But the instinctual knowledge that she had retreated to the fire escape implored him to stop, reconsider his plans, and join her.

He tossed the keys at the countertop and closed the door behind him, eyes sweeping across the apartment, inspecting any potential damage that might indicate Zarbon’s return in his absence. The apartment remained relatively untouched; the near empty bottle of whiskey still sat on the coffee table from the night before, though the glass had migrated over to the sink. A few sachets of _Diaoralite,_ Bulma’s personal hangover ‘cure’, were crumpled next to a half-empty glass of cloudy slosh, and several envelopes, their outsides denoting bills and junk, remained untouched on the floor.

She was safe.

Which is when he spotted the only out of place object nestled deliberately atop a cushion on their couch.

He approached the black box with caution, a neon pink post-it note slapped atop of it. He reached for his gun, nudging the strange object with its muzzle, toppling it to its side and exposing the nature of the box.

With a scowl Vegeta pocketed his gun and snatched at the paper, his lip curling up in distaste. In the same familiar, looping scrawl that often warned him not to touch particular items in the fridge, or to take the trash out, the words ‘ _just in case’_ stared up at Vegeta, taunting him. Mocking him.

He very nearly crushed the box of condoms in his hands.

“Mother fucker.”

Abandoning Bulma’s ‘present’, Vegeta stalked towards his bedroom, only to hesitate when the flickering silhouette crouched in on itself on the fire escape demanded his attention; a liminal space that pulled at him and from him constantly, demanding he join her, that he sit beside her and share in her apparent misery. He tried to deny that instinct, tried to force himself onwards, but his body refused to co-operate, and before he knew it he was climbing through the window.

“You’re back,” Bulma said simply, though she didn’t turn to acknowledge him further.

Bulma’s knees were drawn up against her chest, her chin resting on top of them as she stared at the city lights. She looked uncharacteristically sombre; her eyebrows knit together and her mouth pressed into a hard line, and even though the weather had improved considerably, her arms were still prickly with goose bumps.

She looked so miserable, so small and pathetic, Vegeta felt a slither of pity for her. The box of condoms was swiftly forgotten. Vegeta wanted to say something to comfort her, or at least stop her moping, but he struggled to find the right words to help her. The dynamics of their relationship had shifted, and he no longer knew what was appropriate.

“Your boyfriend is a dick,” he said finally, leaning back against the brick to steady himself. It had seemed like a good enough conversation starter, something that didn’t revolve around the fact that they’d crossed a hard line that they’d never be able to backtrack over.

“Yamcha hasn’t been my boyfriend in a very long time.”

“He’s still an insufferable dick.”

“Sometimes.”

Bulma turned towards him, regarding him slowly as her eyes trailed the length of his body, lingering considerably on the slither of his back that was positioned in her direction. Something flickered across her face, a ghost of an emotion that Vegeta struggled to name, let alone fully comprehend, and whatever it was spurred a painful tightening of his chest. It was almost as though looking at him caused her physical distress, and he had to avert his gaze to still the rising lump in his throat.

“Did you fix your ‘work thing’?” Bulma asked, drumming her fingers against the metal bars. In the near distance, lost in a swarm of people and sounds, two people – perhaps a couple – laughed, the tinkering melody of their amusement carried on a breeze towards their lonely fire escape.

“Yes.”

“Is he dangerous?” Bulma pressed, the crease in her forehead deepening. She meant Zarbon, that much was obvious, and it had been foolish to hope that she’d forgotten about him, forgotten about his loaded remarks.

“Yes,” Vegeta replied after a beat, unwilling to lie so directly to her. Though, not completely. “You’ll be safe. I can promise you that much.”

“Can you promise me that you’ll be safe?”

Vegeta refused to respond, and he could have sworn he heard a humourless bark of a laugh when she shook her head. “What’s that weird device on your bedside table?”

“Thing?”

“It was white, with a little LED screen. I think it told the time, but honestly I can’t be sure. The insides of my skull resembled a battlefield this morning, so the specifics are a little hazy.”

“Oh, that? It’s a prototype that Frie—”  Vegeta stopped himself before he could finish, alarmed at his own carelessness. “That my _boss_ developed. It displays information, including time, but it’s cumbersome and I don’t like using it. It doesn’t do anything that a cell phone couldn’t, so I don’t really see the point in it.”

Bulma chewed over this new information, humming quietly to herself and running her fingers across her arm. “I could make you something better, if you’d like. Something more efficient, more to your liking.  Y’know, as one of the perks of living with the smartest woman on Earth.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. Tinkering around with tech is calming. I used to tear shit apart and rebuild it all the time as a kid. It helps me unwind.”

For a split second, Vegeta genuinely considered her offer. He’d known what she was capable of for some time. Had seen Frieza and his associates flaunt the latest Capsule Corporation technology that he’d had no hope in hell ever being able to afford. Had scoured her impressive resume of new designs and various awards while making sure that she was no more of a psychopath than he was.

He’d even seen little glimpses of her genius in practice. In the way she handled their meagre finances in a matter of minutes, the math seemingly done in the time it took her to blink over the numbers. In her frustrated scowl when people only saw a pretty face and her youth so spoke down to her, talked to her as though she may be slow. In the cunning and calculating way she zeroed in on any potential weak points during their frequent spats, always battling him for the upper hand.

The prospect of being able to see her work her magic, to have something tangible in his hands that came from her but belonged to him, excited him more than he knew it should, especially given the recent turn of events. The idea that she would create something just for his comfort, to make his life easier, flew in the face of the life he’d always known, and the compulsion to demand her services was overwhelming. If she was as brilliant as he believed her to be, then anything she created would undoubtedly help him in his quest for freedom.

But it would also put her on the radar. Not just on Zarbon’s, but Frieza’s. It would make her a target. A potential threat that needed to be taken out before she could possibly aid the opposition. A potential _ally_ that Frieza could force into his company.

He wasn’t sure which of the two options sounded worse.

“I’d rather you didn’t get involved,” Vegeta said gruffly, shrugging her hand off of him. “I don’t _need_ anything from you.”

“Suit yourself.” Bulma’s face fell, and for a nanosecond Vegeta felt a slither of guilt. She shifted away from him to accommodate; kicking her legs out between the bars of the fire escape instead, actively looking avoiding Vegeta. Her bottom lip was jutting out, her face tight with frustration, and Vegeta had to fight the compulsion to pin her down and force her to make her flush and gasp instead.

Fuck her.

_Fuck_ her.

“Tch.”

Taking her lead, Vegeta shifted his focus to the skyline, picking out hazy outlines of human beings as they scurried like ants below their feet. They were all idiots, really, blind to the thin veil of normalcy that only did a mediocre job of obscuring the real world – the dark and dangerous wold that he inhabited.

Somewhere below them a police siren wailed into the night. Vegeta wondered who’d died that night. Which gang member had crossed over into foreign territory. Which hooker pressed her luck a little too much with the wrong client. Which show-off couldn’t handle their high and now lay convulsing in the gutter. Part of him wished he could be there, in that world he knew, just so he could feel safe. Normal.

“You’ve never done that before, have you? Hook up with a friend, I mean?” Bulma asked, still staring off into the distance. A star seemed to flicker in and out of existence, either obscured by cloud or proving itself to be merely a plane of some kind, and Vegeta felt his throat grow hot and dry.

What friends?

Vegeta had Raditz and Nappa, he supposed, but beyond that he had no one. Had had no one for as long as he could remember, but confessing that to her felt too personal, left him too vulnerable.

“No.”

She hummed in response, and finally dared to turn his way. He could see the cogs turning in her mind, her lips forming the ghosts of words that she didn’t quite give voice to, as though arguing with herself or practicing some sort of speech. _“_ I meant what I said last night.”

“Bulma...”

“About you being the only person I trust with my body.”

“Fucking Christ, please stop.”

_“_ And I don't regret what happened at all, quite the opposite really.” She was lying, she had to be. To bolster his confidence for her own personal gain, or to try and lessen the cringeworthy atmosphere that would undoubtedly haunt every minor interaction of theirs from here on out.

“You goddamn bitch, just stop talking.”

“I mean, you were _incredible._ ”

Oh.

“I know you have this whole 'brooding tough guy' image to maintain, but if you lightened up just a teensy bit you'd have the ladies throwing themselves at you. And...” Bulma's eyes fell to his crotch, “you definitely have a _lot_ of potential.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, so serious. And to think, I spent this week’s tips on safety provisions for us.”

“Goddamnit, woman.”

“I always thought that getting laid made guys less uptight, not more.”

Vegeta didn’t know what to say to that. What _could_ he say to that?

That the reason he was so goddamned worked up was because he wanted to simultaneously preserve their friendship in its current form, and drive between her legs until he could no longer remember his own name? Because sleeping with her made her would mean sullying her, potentially dragging her into the world he was trying so desperately to escape?

Because she had the potential to compromise his plans, to derail the very thing he’d worked so hard for. To stop him killing Frieza.

Because doing so meant one of two things: being killed by one of the other Colds, or someone else seeking to avenge the worthless lizard, or being killed by Frieza before he even had the chance to exact his revenge.

Because while he’d made his peace with either scenario, there’s no way Bulma would let him go on a suicidal mission in the name of freedom.

“You know, I half assumed you were a virgin,” Bulma supplied for him. “Not to say you were bad, or obviously inexperienced, because trust me when I say you really hit that homerun, just before we… well, you know, I thought you were a late bloomer. You’re so… _you_ , I figured you’d never let anyone close enough to touch you.”

“I don’t normally…” Vegeta began, his face growing hotter. “I don’t usually… not with people I know. No kissing, and not in my own bed... I don’t trust… I-it’s easier, that way.”

She was watching him intently again, and Vegeta was unable to puzzle out whatever she may have been thinking. Bulma almost looked sad, teaming with regrets, and he wished he hadn’t been so carelessly honest.

“You trust me, right?” Bulma asked after a moment, her hand finding his and resting atop of it.

“…I suppose, to a degree.”

“Good,” Bulma said. Her hand squeezed his experimentally. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s not like we’d have to start dating or anything ridiculous like that. I just think we could both do with the release from time to time, and it’s safer than bringing home random one-night-stands. If either of us meet someone, we can stop.”

Vegeta blanched, ripping his hand away from under hers and staring at her with pure, unadulterated horror. “You’re not suggesting _that_?”

“You know you can say the word ‘sex’, it’s allowed.”

Vegeta whipped around, looking for any potential witnesses, anyone who might have overheard their conversation, the tips of his ears burning with the indignity of it all. She was toying with him, had to be, there was no other reason Bulma would be pressing the matter so damn hard. Unless… 

“No.” It was as much to himself as it was to her, killing the worm of _that_ idea before it could burrow in and latch on. “Absolutely not, and no one can ever know about the events of last night. Especially Raditz.” 

“Okay, okay, whatever you say, My lips are sealed, ‘ _Getes_.” 

“Don’t push your luck, _Bullmoose._ ” 

At that Bulma laughed, and the sound aided in easing some of the tension from Vegeta’s shoulders. Cautiously, he inched his hand closer to hers once more, until their fingertips were only a hair’s breadth away. Bulma took the hint, shifting to lock their fingers together, a shadow of a smile ghosting across her face. 

“Vegeta?” 

“What now?

“You are … okay, aren’t you? I mean, you’re happy, right?”

Vegeta didn’t answer. Instead, he raised their conjoined hands to his cheek, his mind swarming with thoughts of the hefty dossier sat in the glove compartment of his car, of content swell that had come with the intertwining of their bodies, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

fanart by [TheNotSoSuperSaiyan](https://thenotsosupersaiyan.tumblr.com/post/174725502829/thinking-about-myn-sii-s-city-of-stars)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are elements of this chapter that feel disjointed, I can only apologise. I wrote several thousand words prior to my original MacBook breaking down, and the rest was written several weeks later, so there was a significant time disconnect. I did try and smooth things out, but I'm aware that there might be noticeable moments indicating such shifts, and I'm sorry I was unable to do more about it. 
> 
> As always I absolutely love hearing your theories as to what you think happens next (the love Nappa receives from you guys is surprising, but nice), and if you have any more feel free to throw them my way! I also promise that Raditz will return in all of his glory very, very soon. 
> 
> I’d like to say another huge thank you to @TheNotSoSuperSaiyan for not only blessing me with even more beautiful fanart, but for creating the playlist that essentially became the driving force of this chapter. [ You can find her playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/user/mightymooseart/playlist/6WpUSTqp5nRJs0wWXRDzXd?si=NFtjgmQcTF6t8KbY570K0g), and I implore you all to read her fic [‘The Prince of Ash and Snow’ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038152/chapters/32334033)because it is simply wonderful, AND recently completed. I also HIGHLY recommend checking out @Bitchii_usa 's [ 'Concerto'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9274775/chapters/21018725), one of my all-time favourite vegebul AU's, that was updated not once, but TWICE in the last week or so.
> 
> My own Spotify playlist (updated on a semi-regular basis) [can be found here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/mynsii/playlist/79bz7hBcSYupU1U9buUmU5?si=1xzYIxjgSt6Vz_TvjQJ0cQ)


	10. Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta and Bulma continue to deal with the consequences of their one night stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta’d. We die like men here.

* * *

 

Vegeta could feel the sweat gathering at the back of his neck, his palms, uncomfortably clammy at his side, twitching with the desire the wipe away the moisture. He swept his palms along his thighs, agitation mounting, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as each second stretched on in silence.

“Hey, what’s the hold up? I do have shit to do today.”

The anonymous goon guarding the door and, by extension, Vegeta, offered him a pithy sneer in return, but the way the toe of his boot repeatedly tapped the floor suggested he was just as frustrated as his ‘captive’. 

It wasn’t uncommon for Frieza to summon Vegeta, but that didn’t make it a pleasant experience. Most of the staff (if they could even be called that) had very little to do with their leader, instead taking their orders from various induvial with some semblance of authority, Vegeta included. Those Frieza took an interest, once again including Vegeta, were the only ones granted somewhat regular access to the devil himself. A privilege, so they said.

Of course, Frieza also demanded an audience with those who had fucked up so spectacularly that only his own brand of punishment could suffice.

It was rare, at least in recent years, that Vegeta found himself on the receiving end of _those_ sort of meetings. Experience had taught him that his life was worth more than cheap shots that would only implode and back talk. Not by much, but enough.

As far as he was aware, incident with the boy at The Namek aside, he’d done nothing in the last few months to warrant such a severe reprimanding. He was, at least on the surface, Frieza’s ever loyal bulldog.

But that did nothing to ease the tightening coil of worry currently sitting heavily in Vegeta’s gut, screaming at him that something unfavourable lay waiting for him on the other side of the slab of oak.

Several lower ranking goons passed him in the hallway, their eyes curious. Most, sensibly, cowered away instinctively, keeping a careful distance in spite of their piqued interest. However, some of them smirked knowingly, as though anticipating Vegeta’s fall from grace.

Through years of hard work Vegeta had cultivated a reputation that afforded him certain luxuries within their society. Namely, though he’d yet to take the plunge and kill someone himself, most people considered what he did to those who crossed him much, much worse than death. He’d had more than one unlucky soul literally beg for a bullet between the eyes as an alternative to being left in the hands of The Prince.

His ruthlessness, his dedication to inflicting misery at any cost cemented his place among Frieza’s favourite pets, elevating him far beyond the lowly status of the common peons to that of an elite. After all, Vegeta’s worth to Frieza was immediately and intrinsically contingent to the numerable sacrifices made, and lengths that Vegeta was willing to go to in order to appease the crime lord.

Which made Vegeta a target who many within the underworld wanted to see fail.

“Keep walking, fuckers.”

The door creaked open ominously, and instinctually Vegeta sat up a little straighter, while his spectators scattered and quickened their pace towards whatever drug run or money laundering mission they’d been tasked with.

“Go in,” the guard said simply, motioning towards the room with a quick flick of his head.

The room was dimly lit, the only real source of light being a single table lamp perched on the edge of an otherwise sparse desk. Zarbon and Dodoria stood statuesque either side of the desk, their arms folded tightly behind their backs, heads bowed in a rare show of respect. Though Vegeta knew better than to assume that it was for him.

Frieza sat in an overly large chair, mostly obscured by shadow, disinterestedly swirling a glass of one in one hand, while the other rapped an impatient beat against the chair’s arm. Vegeta sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to slow his heartrate, hating himself for getting so worked up at the mere sight of his boss slash enslaver.

Though Frieza was slight, he was terrifying, and held an enormous power that extended far beyond physical limitations. Thin pale limbs that carefully, intentionally, failed to denote any true strength, a narrow, pinched face topped with fine, wispy hair. Vegeta tried not to make a habit of deifying mortals, and yet he knew, had always known, that Frieza was more than a man.

He was a nightmarish caricature that bordered on the sincerely demonic.

“You called for me, Lord Frie—” Vegeta cut himself short when he spotted the figure lay crumpled at Frieza’s booted feet, the heel of his shoe pressed against the back of her skull.

Vegeta’s pupils bloomed in tangent with ice cold recognition, the world fading to black around him until all that existed in the entire universe was this room, this scene, playing out like some macabre theatre piece. Time itself seemed to crawl to a halt; each second dragging as though days and years were interchangeable at will, and Vegeta had been unlucky enough to be caught in a moment of shuffling temporal uncertainty.

“B-Bulma?”

She wasn’t moving, though her breathing was shallow, which was a small mercy. Her skin was littered with huge black and purple splotches, a headwound disappearing into her hair being among the worst of her injuries, blood trailing the length of her face and dipping below her jawline.

Frieza merely smirked.

“W-what is she… h-how? I don’t… I don’t understand,” Vegeta stammered, too overwhelmed by the iciness in his veins to pay any mind to his tongue’s clumsy treachery.

“Oh dear Vegeta, did you really think you’d be able to keep your sweet little pet from me?” The voice echoed, distorted, frighteningly so, only synched with the movement of Frieza’s lips by sheer chance. “And what a pretty little pet she is.”

“She’s nothing. Just a roommate, there’s no need to involve her in your business.”

“Is that so? Was she simply nothing more than your roommate while you were bottomed out inside of her?” 

“H-How do you know about that?”

Frieza’s heel seemed to press further into her skull, and Bulma’s body convulsed in response. Vegeta wanted to act, to lurch forward and shove the tyrant off of her, to reach for his gun and blow Frieza’s fucking brains out. But he was cemented to the ground, limbs refusing to co-operate.

“Tell me, Prince, how does she taste? Is her cunt as sweet as her little mouth? When you fucked her did she feel like home? No, don’t tell me, I’ll find out for myself soon enough, and it would be such a shame if the surprise were to be ruined.”

“You unimaginable bastard,” Vegeta growled, fighting through the invisible restraints that forced him back. “Don’t you touch her. If you touch her I’ll kill you. I’ll find a way Frieza, I promise you that.”

Frieza chuckled, the laughter mimicked by Zarbon and Dodoria. Somehow, without Vegeta even realising that he’d moved, the latter was on the floor besides Bulma, one of his thick hands hovering the length of her body before settling on her hip, pushing the hem of her shirt up just slightly as it did so. Her stilted breathing hiked slightly at the contact, and it was only when Dodria’s fingers disappeared beneath the material of her shirt and move upwards, and Vegeta’s vision began to blur in response, that he realised he was crying. 

“Please, Lord Frieza,” Vegeta choked out, his voice hoarse, limbs still refusing to cooperate. “Leave her alone. Don’t touch her. Don’t let _him_ touch her.”

“Come now, I’ve been nothing but hospitable to you for many years. The least you can do is learn to share,” Frieza sounded almost bored, inspecting his fingernails as he spoke. “I wish to have my fill of her, and when I am done Zarbon and Dodoria can bicker amongst themselves about whatever is left. As you have already sampled her you’re in no fit state to protest.”

Dodoria vanished, Frieza crouched in his place with Bulma’s head limp in his lap. Pale fingers traced the outline of her lips, while Frieza’s other hand worked at the buckle of Bulma’s jeans. Vegeta’s mind raced, skin hot, eyes hotter, vomit clogging his throat so that it hurt to breathe. He tried, desperately, to step forward, to scream, to do _something,_ but with no success. Instead his insides began to burn and rage, wild, untamed, clashing violently with the immobility of his outer body, as though the answer was to slice through his own arteries and tear muscle from bone and only _then_ would he be able to step forward and protect her. It was a pungent desire to obliterate the world around him, even if he had to pull himself to pieces in the process, just to ensure her safety.

“Don’t worry, Vegeta,” Frieza cooed, successfully unbuckling Bulma’s pants and slipping his hand below the surface of the fabric. Vegeta howled silently, rage and pain exploding from within him in ways he couldn’t fathom, much less articulate. He wanted to kill, he wanted to die, he wanted it all to stop. “I’ll allow you to watch.”

Blue eyes snapped open, wide with terror, just as the hand in her hair tightened and wrenched her backwards.

Vegeta wished, more than anything, that he could just grab his gun and fire. Levered the way that she was, Bulma was an easy target. It would be quick, clean, _kind._ A single shot, right between the eyes, and it would all be over.

She wouldn’t even feel it.

As if by magic one of Vegeta’s fingers twitched, freed from whatever nefarious spell he’d been placed under. He could do it for her. He would break his own rules for _her_.

“Do it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Vegeta awoke with a start, his hair slick against his temples and his lungs burning in protest. His eyes darted about the room in a quick, yet meticulous once-over, and he let out a ragged breath when the coast seemed clear.

Beyond the confines of his room he could hear the quiet hum of the morning radio, the gentle clatter of cupboards opening and shutting emanating from the kitchen. Bulma’s voice as she occasionally sang along to the lyrics that were too muffled for him to make out and understand.

She was home. She was _safe._

It had just been a dream, a horrible, visceral dream, but a dream nonetheless.

Vegeta sank back into his bed, trying hard to level his breathing, working his jaw to try and force it to unclench. Nightmares were not uncommon, he’d suffered from them from the day he’d been torn away from his mother and handed off to his father’s financial captor (slash future killer), and he’d simply grown used to them. He’d simply seen and done too many horrific things, reality and fiction bleeding into one another until the experiences were damn near indistinguishable. There had even been moments when Vegeta himself was unable to discern whether a particularly gruesome event had actually transpired, or if it had just been a figment of his imagination.

But this was different.

_When you fucked her did she feel like home?_

It had just been a dream, a consolidation of accumulated information chopped up and churned back out in the form of a cognitive simulation. It meant nothing, just a random phrase triggered by misfiring neurons, yet the words pressed down heavily on his shoulder, seeping through his skin and weaving a pattern throughout his nervous system.

Vegeta hadn’t had a home in a long time, not truly. He had lived and drifted between run down apartments, but home to him had been a house where his memories decayed, and the pencil marks on the doorframe tracking his (barely changing) height had likely been long painted over. He had been driftless ever since.

Bulma had been soft and warm and pliant, the slight salt of her skin against his tongue stilling the restless roar of his blood.

Just sex. It had just been sex.

It meant nothing.

Even _if_ it did – and it was a pretty big if – he had no real reason to fear Frieza finding out, other than the information being used as leverage. He’d fucked women before, bother at Frieza’s behest and on his payroll; the daughters and girlfriends of mob bosses and rival gang leaders supplying plenty of information when given the right incentive. Not once had Vegeta ever been reprimanded or punished for sleeping around, and it wouldn’t make sense for Frieza to change the rules now.

So why couldn’t he shake the sense of impending doom?

Vegeta huffed, trying to focus on the obscured sound of her voice dancing through the apartment, rather than the image of Frieza abusing her battered body. For the first time in years, his nightmares made him experience a genuine _fear_. It was illogical, but if Frieza were to somehow find her, to act on the desire to hurt her… he wasn’t sure how he’d cope.

Somehow, without his consent or knowledge, Vegeta’s goal had evolved from ‘he had to get out’ to ‘he had to get out _and_ protect her’, and though he failed to understand the logic behind this sudden shift, he was driven by the compulsion to complete his task.

Fucking her had clearly made him soft.

_Do it._

Just sex. Just fucking sex, and just a fucking dream.

_I’m sorry._

Bulma was alive, and their night together meant nothing.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sor--_

Vegeta reached up to touch his cheek with the back of his forefinger, and was only mildly surprised to find that his skin was damp.

\-------- 

Bulma scratched absently at a brown ring – the last remnants of an early morning hot chocolate spillage earlier in the day – with her thumbnail, her mind very much elsewhere. A script, boring, cliché, sat next to the expresso machine, taunting her lack of enthusiasm – with life, with her job. “Yajirobe, how do you do it?”

Yajirobe looked up from the dog-eared catalogue he was lazily flicking through with a quirked brow. He had circled a brand new steamer, one that stretched the limited budget Popo had given them for repairs and remodels, with a blue sharpie, adding a little smiley face beside it. “Do what?”

“Come here every day and act like serving coffee to Instagram obsessed teenagers and stuffy suits doesn’t suck the soul from your body?”

“Easy. I actually like my job.”

“Huh, what’s that like?”

Yajirobe shrugged, glancing around The Lookout before returning to the catalogue with a wistful sigh, his fingers gliding over an expensive looking expresso machine. “I dunno, but it’s got to be better than sitting around and sulking till it’s time to clock out, right?”

Her thumbnail broke under the pressure and Bulma swore quietly under her breath. She couldn’t stop thinking about Vegeta, which wasn’t helping her bad mood. She saw elements of him in almost every customer; dark skin, windswept hair, gym-fresh muscles. Each avenue of association led her back to the one single point of focus: Vegeta, and the ugly, gnarled scars on his back.

As much as she’d tried to push the sight of his badly mangled body out of her mind, for the sake of their friendship, if not just her sanity, it felt like an impossible task.

The fact that he’d been behaving strangely before she’d left for work certainly hadn’t helped matters. 

Honestly, Bulma had been anticipating that things would be awkward for a little while following their little under-the-covers exploration of anatomy, it was Vegeta, after all. Their little talk on the fire-escape the night before had gone smoother than she could ever had imagined it going, even if it was almost offensively clear that seeing her naked ranked pretty highly on his list of things he never, _ever_ wanted to do again, and she’d thought that maybe, just maybe, their dynamic would return to normal and their tryst would fall from memory, or become one of those moments that they’d tease each other about years down the line when they were both happy and old and involved with someone new.

Or maybe, just maybe, they could _adapt_.

But when Vegeta had stumbled into the kitchen, later than usual, he’d looked _scared_. He’d barely said two words to Bulma of his own volition, only grunting out monosyllabic answers when she’d tried to stoke the fire of friendly conversation. He’d become somewhat more animated when she’d tried, once again, to broach the topic of sex, but even then Vegeta had tried to shut down the conversation as quickly as it arose.

As Bulma had grabbed for her jacket and keys he’d snatched at her wrist, grip a little too tight, and with conviction and a rising blush had uttered two small, simple words.

_Be careful._

She’d suspected his odd mood had something to do with the handsome stranger who’d turned up unannounced to their place, after all, by Vegeta’s own admission the man was dangerous. Whatever he’d said or done to Vegeta, whatever the true purpose of his visit, the stranger – Zarbon, wasn’t it? – had managed to shake Vegeta in some capacity.

Speaking of shaken…

She’d bought the condoms only half-jokingly.

Bulma liked the way that such a simple gesture could fluster Vegeta to such an extent, his skin turning a particularly interesting shade of maroon. For someone so dark and bottomless, who could shatter limbs without a second thought, his tolerance for sex and emotions was shockingly low. Getting a rise out of him would at least brighten her spirits after her confrontation with Yamcha, and help make the hangover worth it.

But, more than that, a (not-so) tiny part of her wanted a repeat performance.  

How long had it been since she’d had sex? How long had it been since she’d had _good_ sex?               

Bulma enjoyed flirting, but that didn't mean she had intentions of sharing her body with men unable to comprehend her excellence.

She cared for Vegeta deeply, and that compassion ran even deeper knowing that he’d endured atrocities beyond her limited comprehension. He was attractive, in his own surly way, and Bulma felt _safe_ with him. Neither of them had any interest in forming and maintaining a romantic relationship, too busy with their own lives and completely incompatible, so it seemed perfect. She enjoyed his company, his sour attitude, and the shocki§ng brilliance of one of his rare, yet sincere smiles or bouts of laughter. She enjoyed lounging with him watching nonsense and just feeling the stresses of the day melt away with his companionship.

It would be an easy solution to a background problem.

“So it really was a one time thing, huh?” She’d asked, causing Vegeta to splutter into his breakfast. He slammed his fist against his chest to help ease his coughing, and only when he’d been able to control his breathing again did he shoot her a stern, wet-eyed look.

“The fuck?”

“You don’t have to decide right away, there’s no pressure,” Bulma had said, her confidence wilting. “Just… let me know.”

He’d looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, and perhaps she had, his lips turned up in disgust. “No,” he’d sat flatly, reaching for his coffee. “Give me one good reason why I should even have this conversation with you.”

“I can think of at least _eight.”_

Vegeta nearly gagged on his food. “No. _Stop_.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Bulma countered, her brows drawing together. The fact that Vegeta had been so _disgusted_ by the idea had been a rather large fly in the ointment, one that had shaken Bulma more than she’d initially anticipated. “When we had sex, did I say or do something to upset you?

“…No.”

“Then why are you so against this?”

“Because I...” Vegeta had caught himself and scowled, killing whatever thought he'd nearly given voice to. “Leave me alone, woman. I gave you my answer.”

“Yo, earth to Bulma.” Yajirobe’s fingers clicked in front of her nose, and Bulma startled back into the present. “Man, for a moment there I thought you’d been possessed or some crap.”

“Huh?” Bulma blinked a few times, the little vignette of the coffee shop sharpening in into focus. “Oh, right, sorry. I spaced out for a second there. It’s been a busy few days.”

“No biggie.” Yajirobe said. “Just be glad it was me here and not Popo. You know _I_ don’t give a shit.”

“Hmm.” Bulma plucked a pink marshmallow from the glass jar on the counter and popped it into her mouth with an exaggerated smack of her lips. A customer, non-descript and little more than a featureless grey blob for all the attention she paid them, raised their head from the morning paper at the sound, frowning at her before returning to the editorials. “Where is Popo, anyway? It feels like it’s been an eternity since the last time I saw him.

“Helpin’ out Kami with some kid, last I heard. Some distant relative who needed a place to stay.”

“That’s nice of him,” Bulma said, interest waning. Her fingers crawled towards the water-curled edges of the script, hovering just above the paper as she lied to herself that the reason she couldn’t bring herself to memorise lines for another audition with some unknown, unseasoned director for his barely-funded production was because she had a duty to the job that (almost) paid her rent, and not because she was obsessing over the scars marring Vegeta’s skin like grained wood, and the rejection he had swiftly thrown her way.

“I guess,” Yajirobe replied with an equally lazy, disinterested shrug. “Hey, you think if I butter him up usin’ that kid, get it a yo-yo or some shit, Popo’ll finally cough up the dough and get me some Kopi Luwak beans to play with?” 

Bulma buried her head in her hands and groaned.

\--------

Her shift at The Lookout ended uneventfully; Bulma eventually flicking through her script, while Yajirobe made a Christmas list of his dream appliances and beans under the guise of actual work. Customers barely filtered in through the doors, the morning dragging by with an unpleasant pull of its teeth along her skin, leaving her with far too much time to think.

Something felt inherently wrong. Some nameless, malevolent thing that Bulma didn’t couldn’t quite name having slammed into her and thrown her entire world off kilter. It was as though she’d been plucked up and dropped into a controlled simulation, a world that looked and behaved like her own, but with colours and sounds that were out of balance and overblown, making her feel a bit sick.

It was as though she were perpetually overstimulated, her skin rippling, senses overwrought. She felt testy, the slightest touch suddenly invasive enough to have her recoiling in disgust, faint whisperings grating and too loud in her ear.

Bulma used to feel the same way as a kid, sometimes.

During fights with Yamcha, mostly (or with whatever in-between boyfriend she was dating during one of their many breaks), or when she was being spoken down to by teachers she could easily outsmart, her intelligence swept under the rug because she was a beautiful young girl with big blue eyes and a smart mouth. Occasionally when her father was given credit for _her_ inventions, or her mother would drag her to obnoxious parties and cotillions to mingle with eligible young boys who only seemed interested in her cup size and the colour of her underwear, eyes glazing when she started talking about her recent scientific endeavours or her love of the silver screen.                                             

It was only through years of practice (and the occasional slip-up), that Bulma remained tantrum free throughout her shift.

Chi Chi had greeted her after work, Gohan bundled up in tow, and together they’d walked to the dojo while Chi Chi delivered a play-by-play of her son’s (mis)adventures with his grandparents, and how Bardock had apparently thought teaching a kid to respond to “how was your day?” with “pretty bitchin’” was a good idea.

Goku and Tien were still finishing up the last of their classes when the three of them entered, sparring with each other in a display that was designed to educate their pupils, but was clearly fun for them. Bulma, Chi Chi, and Gohan settled on the elevated benches, usually reserved for parents, and the occasional over-enthusiastic local fan-girl (mostly Tien’s, Goku’s wife having scared off any pretty-little-thing that dared cheer on _her_ husband long, long ago) during competitions. 

When the class shuddered to a close Tien and Goku came over to make brief, cursory small talk, the latter planting an affection, if not sweaty kiss on his wife’s cheek - too pumped up with adrenaline to offer much else – before whisking Gohan away (much to Chi Chi’s chagrin) for an impromptu junior training session.

Leaving the two women alone in relative privacy.

“Do friends with benefits actually work?” Bulma asked, unable to contain herself any longer. She clutched at the frayed knees of her jeans, feeling strangely nervous.

Chi Chi slowly replaced the cap on her (frankly disgusting) health food drink and lifted her gaze to level with Bulma’s. Somehow she always had a judgemental way about her that screamed dark and dangerous, like she could easily kick your ass without so much as breaking a sweat. Bulma had always supposed that it was simply something Goku found incredibly attractive about his wife, but now, with that scrutiny turned on her, Bulma only wanted to shy away and hide forever. “Don’t tell me Raditz finally wore you down? ‘Cause I love you, and being your sister-in-law would be great, but I think you can do much better than my husband’s delinquent older brother.”

Bulma pulled a face. “What? Me and Raditz? No, don’t be dumb. He’s like a brother to me.”

“Psh, tell _him_ that,” Chi Chi murmured, seemingly pleased with that answer if the faint, upward quirk of her lips was anything to go by. “Then… is it Tien?” She glanced at the man in question, currently sparring with Goku between bouts of friendly banter, trying to encourage Gohan to emulate him, repositioning his little arms and nudging his legs apart with his foot. “Because you know he’s seeing—”

“God no,” Bulma interjected, gutting that thought before Chi Chi could continue it. “I like Tien, but oh my god _no._ ”   

“Then _who_?” the dark haired woman pressed, leaning forward and shifting her weight.

Bulma could tell Chi Chi the truth, couldn’t she? After all, Bulma had been the first person her friend had turned to when she’d found out she’d gotten pregnant, and Chi Chi had stroked Bulma’s hair as she sobbed into tubs of ice-cream and lamented Yamcha’s (rumoured) infidelities. Except… Chi Chi didn’t really like Vegeta, if their few strained meetings were anything to go by, and Chi Chi would most likely lecture her about STI transmission rates and unwanted pregnancies if she were to even mention the impromptu she had shared with her new-ish roommate.

But, more than that, she could never and probably would never understand what Bulma saw in Vegeta, especially now.

A broken, sad, and lonely man hiding behind an angry, rude wall for his own protection.

Below them Gohan let out a shrill squeal of delight, writhing in his father’s arms as Goku tickled him mercilessly. The scene was sickly sweet, something straight out of Hallmark headquarters, and even Tien had a small smile on his face. Noticing them staring, Gohan waved a fat, star-fish palmed hand at his mother and Bulma, red faced and panting as Goku continued his assault. At her side Chi Chi waved back, her eyes twinkling fondly, and Bulma realised that no matter what she said or how she framed it, Chi Chi and Vegeta simply lived on two separate planes of existence, both lacking the necessary environmental knowledge of one another’s world to allow for successful social integration.

Chi Chi would never understand how or why Bulma was even _friends_ with Vegeta, let alone considering evolving said friendship into something sexual, and Bulma kinda wished she were talking to Goku instead.

He would get it, he _g_ ot _her_ on some instinctual level than was almost familial yet ran deeper than blood.

Running a hand through her hair, Bulma let out a heavy breath. “No one. This is purely hypothetical.”

A playful smirk took up residence on Chi Chi’s face, her elbow shooting out to prod Bulma in the ribs. “Oh, so it’s really been that long, huh?”

The bruise on her throat throbbed accordingly, and Bulma hoped that the inch-thick later of concealer had help up throughout the day. “Something like that.”

“Well, in _my_ opinion, blurring the lines like that is just asking for trouble. It’s opening up a whole can of worms that you’re going to have to deal with sooner or later, and things usually end unpleasantly. The problem is you’re directionless,” Chi Chi said, pausing to drum her fingers against her knees. “A quickie with a friend won’t fill _that_ void.”

Chi Chi, if nothing else, had a point in _that_ regard.

Annoyingly so.

The gap between where Bulma was and where she wanted to be yawned wider with every passing month that was sustained only by a base salary and a fluctuating tip jar. Sleeping with Vegeta wouldn’t help her break into the industry. Sleeping with Vegeta wouldn’t stop producers and directors looking at her as though she were dirt beneath her feet. It wouldn’t stop the tight, rising sense of fear; the desperation that gripped her, screaming that time was running out and she’d given up something she was _brilliant_ at to pursue a hobby that she loved, and maybe it was all a gigantic mistake, threatening to break her.

But it might make things easier. Numb the ache.

Make _him_ feel good, too. If he’d let her.

She couldn’t take back the damage inflicted on Vegeta’s body and mind, couldn’t will away the deep grooves marring his flesh. But she could make him forget, if only for little pockets at a time. Replace pain with pleasure.

“You need to be more like Goku,” Chi Chi mused, watching her husband and son play fondly.

Bulma blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Goku lives his life simply. He has us, and he has the dojo, as much as I hate it, and he has our friends, and that’s enough for him. As long as he can fight and spend time with us, he’s happy. He just _lives_.”

“Goku is…special,” Bulma said carefully, pushing on when Chi Chi raised a brow in annoyance. “Rare. Not many people in life have his enthusiasm for, well, everything. Plus he has _you_ guys. Who do I have?”

“I heard about Yamcha’s visit. He talked to Tien about it, and Tien talked to Goku.”

Bulma tensed, “Well _I_ don’t want to talk about it.”

“For what it’s worth I think he’s sorry about what happened at his dinner… and your place. He just gets too in his own head and doesn’t think about how his actions may impact other people,” Chi Chi stopped, apparently waiting for Bulma to formulate some sort of reply. When Bulma stubbornly bit down on her lower lip to punctuate her unwillingness to participate, Chi Chi huffed softy. “He’s still in love with you, you know. If you’re really set on this whole friends with benefits thing…”

“Chi Chi, don’t,” Bulma said, voice strained. She didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to think about Yamcha at all. He’d hurt her in a way she’d never thought possible from him, even when their relationship was at its worst, but, more than that, she wasn’t a monster. Even if she wanted to reach out to Yamcha and evolve their friendship, and it was a pretty big ‘if’, the fact that he still had lingering feelings towards her, feelings that Bulma was no longer able to return herself, would make anything they did unspeakably cruel. No matter how pissed off she was at him, Bulma simply couldn’t hurt him in that way. “Please, don’t.”

The lapsed into silence again, and Bulma pulled out her phone to kill the time while Chi Chi shouted words of encouragement that seemed to fly against her ‘no fighting for Gohan’ rule, but Bulma wasn’t about to start pointing out the hypocrisy of it all.

“So… has it really been that long?”

“Huh?”

“Your dry spell,” Chi Chi said with a roll of her eyes. “How long has it been since you had s-e-x.”

It was an unnecessary precaution, with Gohan too busy being taught by his father and Tien how to shift the weight of his feet correctly, and being only _five_ and naive to what sex actually was _,_ but Bulma supposed it was hard to switch off from mom-mode when Chi Chi spent practically every waking hour coddling the kid in a way that was borderline abusive.

 _Thirty seven hours_. “Eight, nine months,” Bulma lied instead.

“Yeesh. And I thought the first few weeks after Gohan was born were rough.” Chi Chi paused in contemplation, taking another sip of her abomination of a drink. Almost as though she were unaware of her own actions, Chi Chi turned away from Bulma to watch her family. “Y’know, if you’re feeling lonely you should have baby!”

“That would be kind of hard to do without the having sex part.”

“You know what I mean.”

Bulma couldn’t deny that the adoring way Gohan trailed after his father was almost enviable in its sweetness, nor could she argue that Goku’s unwavering love for his child – the child that had essentially robbed him of his final years as a teenager, and forced him to exchange the freedoms of his youth for night feeds and dirty diapers – was admirable. But that wasn’t a life that _she_ wanted. The notion of settling down and starting a family painted picture that was all too saccharine for Bulma’s liking, and she knew on a base level that her boredom would be amplified tenfold if she were to skip into that lifestyle. “Didn’t you shit yourself during childbirth?”

Chi Chi nodded enthusiastically. “All over the midwife, right in front of Goku.”

“Yeah, you’re not really selling it to me.”

Chi Chi, having found an opening, launched into a long and warbling oral presentation about the joy of motherhood, her eyes bright and hand gestures wild with enthusiasm. Bulma let her speak, supplying ‘ahhs’ and ‘mhmms’ where appropriate, while her brain wandered off elsewhere.

 _Be careful_.

\--------

“Please don’t do this.”

Vegeta rolled his eyes, tapping the toe of his boot against the now blood and piss stained vinyl floor. The two men crudely, but effectively, bound to the chairs in the centre of the room, one shadowed by Raditz and the other by Nappa, cowered at the movement. As though _he_ was the one that they feared the most, despite the much larger, more physically imposing men pressing guns against their skulls.

They were right.

“Begging? Pathetic,” Vegeta sneered in response, not entirely sure which of the two men had spoken, but not really caring either way. “You wronged Frieza, and I am here to rectify that wrong.”

One of the men, the one under Nappa’s care, and the man that Vegeta recognised as the one in charge of the shitty little underground bookmakers they were in, made a choked noise, licking anxiously at his lips.

“We can fix this,” he said, eyes wide. “I know we can fix this if—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vegeta interjected. His patience was wearing thin, having been on edge all day. He wanted to go home and sink into his bed, forget about everything that had happened to him over the course of his life, and just _rest_. He didn’t want to deal with this bullshit, didn’t want to have to negotiate with _scum_ , yet here he fucking was. Vegeta ran his palms along his arms, curling his fingers and allowing his nails to catch on uneven, heavily scarred flesh. The snag made being trapped slightly more tolerable. “Fixing bets to work in _your_ favour has cost Frieza a lot of money.”   

Snot, drool and tears dripped down the man’s face to congregate at his chin, disgusting lumps of mucus occasionally falling onto his lap in thick dollops when the quivering of his lip dislodged it. “I’m sorry, my brother and I can pay it all back. Right, Batto?” he implored, turning to the other man, who nodded eagerly in response. “We just need a little more time.”

“Oh, Frieza’s will be compensated, but he also requested that we make a particular example out of you. A reminder as to why it’s a very, _very_ bad idea to fuck with the Colds.” 

Vegeta lifted his chin, and the gun in Nappa’s hand pressed tighter against the man’s skull, and he let out a pathetic whimper in response. Involuntarily the image of Bulma limp and lifeless under Frieza’s heel sprung to the forefront of Vegeta’s mind, painfully, intrusively, and he had to swallow down the lump forming in his throat. A headache began to manifest, and he shook his head to try and rid himself of it.

As if sensing this new weakness, the man edged forward on his seat, as much as Nappa and the restraints would allow, at least. “My kid brother there? He has family, his girl just had a baby. Please, just one more month.”

Vegeta raised a hand to rub at his temples, the rapid pulsing within his skull getting increasingly worse with every passing moment. “You said that last month.”

“I know but—”

“Frieza is a busy man, as am I.”

“You’re the Prince, right? You don’t have to do this… Frieza will listen to you. You’re famous, everyone knows the Prince… Just let me explain—"

“—ENOUGH.”

There had been times, early on in his life, where Vegeta had actually felt somewhat akin to royalty.

Before the fool he’d had the unfortunate pleasure of calling his father had involved himself with Frieza, and his underground dealings had all but bankrupted them, his family had been somewhat wealthy. Nowhere near as affluent as Bulma’s, of course, but rich enough to afford them certain luxuries that had coloured Vegeta’s childhood and made the stark and sudden decline he’d endured, first into near-poverty and then into slavery, all the more shocking and unpleasant.

After a long day of playing exploratory games amongst the briers with Tarble, the susurration of the brook and the bright fife of the resident birds creating the symphony of their childhood, their mother would tenderly scoop them up and carry their weary bodies indoors.

_It’s happening. End of discussion._ _  
No, it’s **not** , King! Why should **we** pay for your selfish idiocy?_ _  
It’s a fucking bathtub, Escha. You’re crying over pipes and metal, while I risk losing my **life!**_ _  
It’s the principle! This is our home, our children’s home. And you through it all away, and for what? Your ego? Your precious **pride**?  
_ _My pride is still far more valuable than the comfort of two overly pampered brats and their ungrateful mother!_

His mother had an ornate copper bathtub that she would dump them in to scrub away at the day’s grime. She would hum the same gentle melody as her hands traced circles in the water, Tarble and Vegeta mostly occupying themselves – the topic of their games shifting into stories of pirates and sea monsters – until it was time for their mother to lather them with expensive soaps and oils.

It was one of the things she’d missed the most, that tub. Vegeta remembered her crying and begging for them to keep it when they’d lost it all; the long, late night arguments between their mother and father that would carry throughout the house, forcing Tarble to curl smaller and tighter under his sheets, and for Vegeta to sneak out of bed and pad quietly along the landing until he’d found the perfect spot to listen from.

Even the habitual, borderline violent, screaming matches hadn’t been enough to tame Vegeta’s infantile idolatry of his father. Bitter disillusionment, and the aching void that it left in his chest, had set in later.

Vegeta hadn’t understood much, and time had jumbled their arguments mostly into nonsense so that he still understood little, but Vegeta remembered the way that his mother had shifted between apoplectic rage and heartbroken sobs in mere seconds, berating his father for gambling away their money, their lives, and pleading with him to allow them to stay, to allow them to keep the tub.

It was something to cling to, Vegeta supposed.

He wondered, as he had done many times over the last seventeen years, if she’d fought so hard for him.

Probably not.

The title of ‘Prince’ meant jack shit now. It had always meant jack shit.

“Vegeta, what’s the order?” Nappa asked quietly, eyes narrowing in silent concern.

Vegeta blinked away the past, holding up a palm towards Raditz, but inclining his head towards Nappa. He couldn’t muster any real enthusiasm, so simply spoke with a soft exhale. “Do it.”

The gunshot rang out, followed but the heavy smack of flesh and wood meeting the floor.

Silence boomed, stifling and hot, until it was cut by a sharp gasp that threatened to evolve into a full blown wail, had it not been for the large hand Raditz quickly clamped over the surviving brother’s mouth. The man, Batto, apparently, writhed against Raditz, eyes bugged wide and wet, arms desperately trying to free themselves from the restraints.

Vegeta took a step forward, paying no mind to the rapidly growing puddle of crimson at his feet, shooing Raditz’s hand away to roughly grip Batto’s jaw. “I hope, for the sake of your wife and son, that you’re a smarter man than your brother was.”

The man let out a choked sob, eyes flicking to his brother’s body, his body trembling and mouth falling open with a repressed gag.

“Are you fucking listening?” Vegeta continued. “If you tell anyone about what happened here today, if you try and run away, or if you fail to pay up, you will live to regret it. Soya and Braed will live to regret it. Or not.”

The look of horror on Batto’s face intensified. “You know their names,” he whispered hoarsely. “How do you know their names?”

“We know everything,” Vegeta rocked back on his heels, side eying his men. Nappa was preoccupied by the blood and brain matter staining his skin, attempting to pick off chunks of flesh and viscera with a sneer of disgust. Raditz mostly looked bored, quietly awaiting Vegeta’s command. “You have thirty days to pay the full amount, plus an additional three thousand to compensate for Frieza’s wasted time. Understood?”

Batto said nothing, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat and piss and tears soaking his skin, forcing his clothing to cling to his skin. His eyes remained glued to the remains of his brother, as though he couldn’t quiet believe what he was seeing, lips occasionally forming silent words that looked suspiciously like the names of his wife and child. 

“Hey, shistain,” Raditz growled, kicking at the chair leg, tactfully avoiding the man’s limbs. Despite the mountain of muscles and the bravado, he was still soft in some ways. It was a trait Vegeta supposed would get him killed, one day. “He’s talking to you.”

“Y-yes,” Batto spluttered, his entire body shaking. He refused to meet Vegeta’s gaze, or Raditz’s for that matter, eyes unmoving from the corpse bleeding out on the floor in front of him. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Raditz, let him go,” Vegeta instructed as he turned away, pacing towards a small rounded table in the corner. “Nappa, call for clean up. You can call it a day and head out once you’re done, Raditz and I will wait here.”

“Right,” Nappa said, nodding his head towards Vegeta and fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“Why the hell do I have to stay here?” Raditz whined, hands working at untying the knots binding the surviving brother to the chair. “I wanna go home. Baldy always gets special treatment.”

“Do some decent fucking work and I might be a little more lenient.” Vegeta snapped, eyes closing as he collapsed into a chair. He was vaguely aware of the shuffling of feet and the scraping of wood against vinyl, broken, wet sobs reverberating around the room until they dimmed and died beyond a slammed door. Somewhere beyond that the quiet calm of Nappa’s voice as he rang in a basic preliminary report and requested assistance, Raditz’s sulky huffs and breathy complaints underlying the scene playing out.

It felt too much, too loud, too quiet, too disconnected. Too much of everything all at once.

He’d known that it was going to be a bad day from the moment he’d entered the headquarters. A distinctive plume of white hair had rounded the corner just as Vegeta and his men had walked through the door, the temperature in the air surrounding Vegeta dropping by several degrees in tandem.

“What are the Ginyu’s doing here?” Vegeta had hissed, very nearly reaching out to clutch at Nappa’s forearm. He had stopped himself just before the tips of his fingers made contact with skin.

“Dunno,” the older man had replied, voice level and cool. “Nothin’ to do with us, though. Don’t worry about it.”

Cui had been tense when he’d dropped off the Saiyan’s list of assignments, refraining from launching into his usual slew of insults and weakly masked hatred as he dropped the dossier on Vegeta’s desk.

“Get it done,” was all Cui had said instead, voice alarmingly tight, shoulders rigid as he turned on his heel and made for the door.

Something was wrong.

Horribly, seriously wrong.

And Vegeta couldn’t help but wonder if his dream had been more of a premonition than simply fiction.

They lost as many of their men to Frieza’s tantrums as they did to rival gangs or coke binges gone wrong. If not _more_. Chicanery existed on both sides, and if Frieza even _suspected_ someone was being anything less than die-for-him loyal, they’d end up with a bullet between the eyes, or a knife in the belly, sooner rather than later. The rules were fickle, changing on an almost daily basis, but being anything less than completely adherent to Frieza’s law was practically a death sentence. In a spectacular display of hypocrisy, Frieza had no qualms in using people for his own gain; managerial legerdemain a common occurrence, especially when the golden child of the Cold empire wanted something with a particularly invested interest. 

In his panic, he’d pushed himself into Zarbon’s office, without the finesse and refinery he’d originally planned on using while approaching the situation, only to find it alarmingly empty, nothing to even indicate that Frieza’s right hand had even stepped a foot into the building. The dossier tucked under Vegeta’s arm had felt impossibly heavy, then, his throat becoming dry and scratchy as his mind raced. He’d wanted, no, _needed_ to put the situation to bed. To bargain Dodoria’s continued attachment to his head in exchange for anyone remotely affiliated with Frieza (himself and Raditz excluded, of course) leaving Bulma the hell alone.

But the empty walls had shrieked back at him mockingly, goading him.

If the Ginyus had been called in, if _Cui_ was aware of the unrest but _he_ was not, if Zarbon was gone, then…

_Vegeta, did you really think you’d be able to keep your sweet little pet from me?_

…was Bulma in danger?

_I’ve been nothing but hospitable to you for many years. The least you can do is learn to share._

Why had Frieza called in the fucking elite of the elite, and failed to say _anything_ to him?

_Don’t worry. I’ll allow you to watch._

Vegeta slammed his fist on the table, sweat prickling at the base of his neck. His heart thundered loudly, painfully, pulse sickeningly quick. The stench of death permeated the air; heady and wet, saturating his lungs and making it hard for him to breathe. Vegeta tried and failed to hack up the worst of it, but the acidy mix of copper and piss and shit refused to budge. “Fuck.”

“You alright, squirt?” Nappa asked, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Clean up’ll be here in a few, if you wanna head out and grab some fresh air, Radi and I can take over.”

“I’m fine,” Vegeta lied, waving him away with a flick of his wrist. “Stop fucking badgering me.”

“You sure? You look like shit,” Raditz cut in. “Worse than usual, I mean.”

“Thanks.”

“I just mean you look stressed,” Raditz amended, attempting to wrangle his thick mane of hair into some sort of ponytail. A faint smattering of blood had taken up residence of Raditz’s high cheekbones; a constellation of macabre freckles that clashed wonderfully with the airy way in which he spoke. Light, playful. As though the body ready to be bagged up on the other side of the room was, in fact, on the other side of the universe and nothing at all to do with them. “If you are stressed you can tell me, y’know.”

“I’m not.”

Raditz and Nappa exchanged a look, one Vegeta had neither the time nor energy to dissect, before separating to finish carrying out their orders. Nappa’s hand clapped against Vegeta’s shoulder, making jump, but the accompanying squeeze was _almost_ affectionate, and despite himself Vegeta relaxed into the touch. Then Nappa’s grip slackened, and a tiny shard of Vegeta could have protested the lack of contact. Instead, he hardened his jaw, glaring at a particularly interesting blood splatter on the opposite wall. He heard Nappa click his tongue against the roof of his mouth in response, but the older man said nothing as he strode towards the door, stepping over the body to wait for clean up to arrive.

As though they were afraid to leave him alone, Raditz flopped down next to Vegeta, the chair creaking in protest. “Are you sure everything is okay, ‘Getes? It kind of seems like you’re spiralling lately, and I’m worried, man.”

“Don’t. I’m just fed up of dealing with incompetent idiots and their bullshit.”  

“If you say so,” Raditz said, pausing to chew at the inside of his cheek. “While we’re in the business of sharing, I need to talk to you. It’s about a certain roommate of yours.”

Vegeta’s blood ran cold, his heart stuttering violently in his chest. He could feel Nappa’s eyes burning into his back from across the room, the weight of his gaze making Vegeta feel _guilty_. “What about her?” Vegeta asked tersely, struggling to keep his voice level and neutral.

“Give it to me straight, is Bulma boning anyone?” Raditz asked, fist against his cheek, elbow propped up on the table. Vegeta choked, forced to thump his fist against his chest to level his breathing. For once Raditz seemed not to notice, too wrapped up in being miserable to pay Vegeta any real attention. “We were Facetiming last night and I’m pretty sure she had a monster hickey on her neck.”

“Why the hell are you Facetiming her?”

“Because I’m her friend? I’d call you if I thought you’d actually fucking answer. Besides, Kakarot told me what went down with her idiot ex-boyfriend at dinner, and I wanted to check up on her and see if she’s okay.”

“She’s fine. She’s not some fragile little thing who needs you fawning over her,” Vegeta snapped. He could feel a rush of prickly heat assaulting his face and neck; spreading deeper into his bones, sinister and malicious. Logically, he had no right to feel this way. Raditz was as much Bulma’s friend as she was his, more so, in fact.  But the reality of sharing her, sharing one of the few glimmers of normalcy he had to call his own, spawned an ugly, poisonous thing within him. It reminded him of the photograph in Bulma’s room, the one with Raditz draped all over her, a soppy, adoring look plastered all over his stupid face. It spawned that same feeling of bitter jealousy that currently overwhelmed him. The same misdirected anger.

The same _shame._

“Why do you even care? You stick your dick in anything with a pulse.  In fact, I’m not even sure having a pulse is a true prerequisite.”

Raditz whined, the pout deepening. “Yeah, but I’m a lovable rogue. A scamp. A scoundrel. It doesn’t _mean_ anything, y’know? Bulma’s my girl. _My_ Blue. She’s better than that.”

_The least you can do is learn to share_

 

“Do you hear the crap that comes out of your mouth? Spare me the false sanctimony.”

“I just mean I fuck around and it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just sex. Bulma’s not like that, sex _means_ something to her. I’ve known her since her and Kakarot were just little kids, and she’s not the kind of girl to just have one night stands.”

No, Vegeta didn’t know.  

The revelation that their tryst might be something that she’d never done before, that she’d made some sort of an exception to a rule he hadn’t previously known existed, just for _him_ inspired something within him that he struggled to name, something that fissured the carefully cultivated wall around his heart all the more.

Had that been the real reason Bulma had been so insistent about making their friendship sexual once again?

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

It would be reasonable to assume that Bulma’s persistence in _that_ matter, if genuine, would be a result of her apparent unease with meaningless physical intimacy. Vegeta himself had no such issues, only caring about two of his sexual conquests – Bulma included – enough to even remember their names unprompted. The first was, well, Vegeta tried not to think about _her,_ his tongue becoming bitter in his mouth nearly a full decade later, and the second was his friend. One of his only friends.

It was easy to separate sex from emotion. A given, even. But if Bulma had never had to, if she struggled with the concept of one-and-done, emotionless flings, then _of course_ she would reach out to him for more.

Vegeta thought back to how easily he’d dismissed her earlier that morning, and felt a stab of guilt, intermingled with something dangerously close to regret.

He had to protect her, not just from Zarbon and Frieza, but from herself.

“Raditz, perhaps this isn’t the best time,” Nappa cut in helpfully, gaze levelling with Vegeta’s. “We’re still on duty.”

“Right, sorry,” Raditz said, eyes shifting to the fourth figure in the room, lingering on the body with expectant eyes, as though it might be able to offer him the advice or comfort apparently needed to soothe his doubts. Because he was so _pathetically_ in love with her. He’d probably have some sort of emotional breakdown if he were to find out what had really happened.

Fucking idiot.

 “In answer to your question, she hasn’t brought anyone back to the apartment since I moved in. It’s probably not a hickey,” Vegeta said quietly, ignoring the obscene lurch of his stomach and the weight of both pairs of eyes glued intently and incredulously to the side of his face. Judging him. He could feel his face heat in response, the prickling sensation creeping from his chest towards the tips of his ears. “To my knowledge, there’s no one like that in the woman’s life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologise for the HUGE delay. Real life has been incredibly hectic (who knew puppies, and hospital check ups, and Actual Adulting took up so much time?), and the longer I left it the harder it was for me to get back into writing this. 
> 
> I hope you're not too disappointed by this chapter, especially given how long it took to come out, and I hope I can get back into the swing of things soon (with much more regular updates). I'm aware it feels a little scattered and _off_ but I tried, and I hope it's not too awful. As always I love to read your comments (if anyone is still reading!) and I hope you all had a great summer.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://www.myn-sii.tumblr.com), ρατrϵon (where I post updates 24-48 hours in advance) and Ko-Fi.


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